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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26849803">31 Days of Hannictober</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoic_swan/pseuds/stoic_swan'>stoic_swan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Because it's 2020 and we all need joy, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hannictober Challenge, Implied Sexual Content, Murder Husbands, Save Will's Pumpkin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:40:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>32,919</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26849803</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoic_swan/pseuds/stoic_swan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Fall and fluff when the murder husbands take up residence in a small town. </p>
<p>Seriously, that's the whole summary.</p>
<p>These are mostly domestic fluff, occur in the same universe, and can be read together or alone. For the purpose of these fics, our AU includes an established relationship circa mid-S1. Everything else-- Chesapeake Ripper, Will working for the FBI, etc.-- is the same.</p>
<p>This series of fics is in response to the Hannictober challenge that can be found here: https://twitter.com/Moondancer1626/status/1311417403218309121</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>210</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>262</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>#Hannictober</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Table of Contents/Summaries</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Since I didn't find this fun challenge until today, I'm doing some backtracking to get caught up. The first prompt was "Scarves," so let's jump in!</p>
<p>As I mentioned in the summary, Hannigram is an established relationship for the purposes of these fics and the time frame in late S1 to early S2.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Below is a one- to two-sentence synopsis for each chapter. Following the synopsis is the genre/vibe of the ficlet in brackets. My favorites are denoted by * at the beginning of each entry.</p><p>
  <i>Table of Contents</i>
</p><p>1. Scarves: A warm moment is shared between two men who don’t really get the whole relationship thing yet. [Fluff]</p><p>2. Pumpkin Pie: Hannibal takes measures to ensure his pumpkin pie is Will’s favorite. [Fluff, Humor]</p><p>3. *Crossroads: Hannibal finds a way to solve Will’s frustration with rush-hour traffic. Or, welcome to the countryside! [Fluff, Humor, Character Study, Serious for about 2 seconds]</p><p>4. Horror Movies: Will and his dogs enjoy a night in; Hannibal does not understand. [Fluff, Humor]</p><p>5. Pumpkin Spice: Ah, cohabitation. A PSL sparks a much-needed discussion. [Fluff, Humor]</p><p>6. Haunting: While Hannibal is out of town, Will finds evil lurking in the shadows. [Suspense, Humor]</p><p>7. Sweaters; Hannibal will not let Will forget him for even a single night. [Fluff]</p><p>8. Possessed; Hannibal’s reading habits are unsurprising. [Fluff, Humor]</p><p>9. Apple Orchards: Moving to a new town means Hannibal has to figure out where to find his ingredients. [Fluff, Humor]</p><p>10. *Fake Blood: Will exorcises some pent-up frustration via an “art” project. Hannibal approves. [Humor]</p><p>11. Scythe: Hannibal has a distinct aesthetic when it comes to interior decorating. [Fluff, Humor]</p><p>12, *Apple Picking: A very rude man visits an apple orchard the same day as Will and Hannibal. That is his first mistake. [Suspense/Drama, Humor]</p><p>13. Corn Maze: While navigating a corn maze, Will imagines. [Character Study, Serious]</p><p>14. *Dark Forest: Hannibal watches and waits. [Character Study, Serious]</p><p>15. Curse: Will has a bad day. Hannibal offers helpful advice. [Fluff, Humor]</p><p>16. *Boo: Buster loves Hannibal, and he will not be ignored. [Fluff, Humor]</p><p>17. *Candles: Will Graham has never known peace. [Character Study, Serious]</p><p>18. *Jack O’Lanterns: Art has always been Hannibal’s forte, but his new medium makes him a local celebrity. [Fluff, Humor]</p><p>19. Bonfire: Beverly has a birthday party. Zeller is confused. [Fluff, Humor]</p><p>20. Full Moon: Hannibal and Will trade folktales. [Fluff, Humor, Character Study if you squint]</p><p>21. *Bones: Will is worried about Buster’s newest hobby. [Fluff, Humor]</p><p>22. Falling Leaves: Cannibalism does not preclude sentimentality. [Fluff, Humor, Character Study]</p><p>23. *Blood Red Setting Sun: Will has a bad feeling that comes to fruition when a surprise guest visits. [Fluff, Humor]</p><p>24. Candy Corn: Team Sassy Science accuses Will of being spoiled. [Fluff, Humor]</p><p>25. *Spirits: Both men have nightmares, but their experiences are vastly different. [Character Study, Serious]</p><p>26 *Trick or Treat, Part 1: Hannibal has questions about what a typical, middle-American Halloween entails. [Fluff, Humor]</p><p>27. Costume Shopping: Choosing a costume could never have been a simple process with Hannibal involved. [Fluff, Humor]</p><p>28. *First Frost: With a first anniversary approaching, Will feels pressure to buy the perfect gift for Hannibal. [Fluff, Humor]</p><p>29. Hot Cider: Hannibal attracts unwanted attention at a local event. [Fluff, Humor]</p><p>30. *Trick or Treat, Part 2: Hannibal hands out Halloween candy for the first time. [Fluff, Humor]</p><p>31. *Halloween: Will remembers. [Character Study, Romance, Serious-ish]</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Scarves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I insist,” Hannibal Lecter asserted as he offered Will the burgundy cashmere scarf for the second time. Will was still shaking his head in adamant refusal as Hannibal placed it around the younger man’s neck.</p><p>Resigned, Will sighed and mumbled, “Thanks.”</p><p>A cold front had moved in unexpectedly on Friday, and while it would pass by Monday afternoon, Will had underdressed for the weather. By the time Will arrived at Hannibal’s Baltimore home from Quantico, he was shivering under his lightweight button-down even with the heater running in the car. Thus, when it was time to leave, Hannibal was all too happy to <i>helpfully</i> drape a heavy wool coat over Will’s shoulders and the impossibly soft scarf around his neck. Will watched the man’s eyes look him over appraisingly from only a few feet away. </p><p>“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Will bluntly asked. </p><p>The glint in Hannibal’s eye confirmed Will’s suspicions. During the course of their relationship, Hannibal had shown more restraint in regard to Will’s clothing than anticipated. He rarely remarked on the plaid flannel shirts and worn jeans; he never questioned Will’s taste or preferences. He simply looked, condemned the attire with his eyes, and then carried on without comment. </p><p>But this moment had been gift-wrapped and hand-delivered, and Hannibal couldn’t resist the impulse to cloak Will in the clothing of his choice. </p><p>It was a fairly benign source of pleasure, so Will endured it, huffing and rolling his eyes the entire time Hannibal thumbed through his coat closet. </p><p>“Are <i>you</i> enjoying it, Will?” Hannibal finally asked after a few seconds of silent appreciation. </p><p>“You’re not my therapist,” Will snipped. “Are we done?”</p><p>“This should suffice,” Hannibal replied.</p><p>Will moved quickly toward the front door, itching to escape. A pang of guilt at his eagerness made him turn, though, to catch the brown eyes watching him from just inside the threshold. This part of the night always felt awkward, no matter how many times they went through it. </p><p>“Good night,” Will uncomfortably said with a nod. It was the farewell you gave a cab driver.</p><p>Hannibal continued observing him without speaking. </p><p>Exasperated with himself, Hannibal, the weather, and perhaps the world at large, Will stepped forward, leaned far enough to brush a light kiss across soft lips, and whispered, “Thanks.”</p><p>The glassy look that sometimes settled in Hannibal’s eyes when he beheld Will was dangerously close to overtaking the warm amber, so Will turned to leave and made his way quickly down the steps without looking back. When he heard the door close behind him, he slowed his pace. The air bit at his exposed face and hands, but his body and neck were insulated against the freezing air. Will put his hands in the pocket and pulled the coat closer, the familiar smell of cedar and something peppery surrounding him in a dreamy cloud. </p><p>The entire drive home, Will was warm.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Pumpkin Pie</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“This is wonderful, Alana,” Will praised as he stared lovingly at the golden orange chunk of pumpkin pie resting on his fork. </p><p>“The back of a can can’t be wrong,” Alana quipped, smiling at the dark-haired man at her table. </p><p>Hannibal watched the exchange without comment. </p><p>“Pumpkin pie was always my favorite growing up. Not too sweet and even my dad could make it,” Will went on, waxing poetic as his fork sliced off another bite from the piece of pie on his dessert plate. </p><p>Alana grinned more widely at Will’s uncharacteristic indulgence. </p><p>“You’re a cheap date,” she teased. “There are worse vices.”</p><p>“I can’t bake without setting off the smoke detector, so I think I’m safe,” Will replied, then took a final bite. </p><p>Still silent, the wheels began turning in Hannibal’s mind. </p><p>A few days later, Will entered Hannibal’s home for their weekly therapy session turned dinner date. He was greeted by a recognizable scent wafting through the house, and his stomach growled. </p><p>Hannibal was chopping herbs on a cutting board when Will entered the kitchen, and he gave the dark-haired man a small smile in greeting. </p><p>“Good evening, Will,” he welcomed as he had many times prior. </p><p>“Hello,” Will said in a sigh as he placed the messenger bag with his work laptop on the chair in the corner of Hannibal’s kitchen. As inconspicuously as possible, he eyed the ingredients laid out and asked, “What’s on the menu tonight?”</p><p>“Roast pumpkin soup and a root vegetable salad with rare beef,” Hannibal described pleasantly as he continued his work. </p><p>“Oh,” Will responded, a note of disappointment creeping into his voice. Hannibal glanced up at the tone, and Will quickly added, “That sounds great.”</p><p>To Will’s surprise, it <i>was</i> great. The pumpkin soup was a touch sweet and rich with coconut cream and spices. It was all Will could do to stop himself from scraping the bottom of the bowl with his spoon, and any hint of displeasure Will might have earlier given was erased.</p><p>Only a few days later, on Saturday morning, Will awoke wrapped in silk sheets. The first thing he noticed was that he was alone, which wasn’t especially unusual when spending the night with an early riser. The second thing, however, was the sweet smell of <i>something</i> baking downstairs. The scent lured Will to the kitchen. Hannibal, clad in a ridiculous robe, poured Will a cup of coffee and pushed it toward him across the island. </p><p>Will inhaled heavily, the smell of whatever was in the oven coating the back of his throat. Over the rim of his mug, Hannibal observed Will’s reaction. </p><p>After a few sips of coffee, Will finally asked, “What’s in the oven?”</p><p>Hannibal looked at the appliance innocently, as though he had forgotten it was there.</p><p>“Ginger pumpkin bread. It will accompany this morning’s quiche very well-- sweet and savory,” the accented voice explained.</p><p>A small pang of disappointment deflated Will’s curiosity, although it was short-lived as he recalled the meal they had shared earlier in the week. He smiled weakly at Hannibal and replied, “Good enough to eat.”</p><p>Will’s faith in Hannibal’s culinary skills was rewarded minutes later when a thin, steaming slice of bread was placed on his plate. </p><p>“An appetizer,” Hannibal said with a sly look, then returned to the quiche. </p><p>Will recognized many of the same notes from Hannibal’s roasted pumpkin soup in the aromatic bread, but the increased sweetness and spiciness as well as the light crunch of the crust made Will’s eyes close as he savored each bite. He could feel Hannibal watching him but couldn't muster enough irritation to care. </p><p>Over the next two weeks, however, suspicion crept into Will’s mind as he began to detect a theme in Hannibal’s cooking: Pumpkin and ricotta ravioli with crushed roasted pumpkin seeds sprinkled on top; pork loin with a pumpkin cream sauce; sage sausage breakfast scramble with tiny chunks of diced and roasted pumpkin; homemade vanilla cardamom frozen yogurt with thin pumpkin wafers shaped into elegantly twisted spears.</p><p>It was all delicious and all distinctly Hannibal, which meant there was an ulterior motive at play beyond simply indulging Will’s autumnal palate. </p><p>Will had almost sorted out exactly what his question was and how he wanted to ask it when the pumpkin disappeared entirely from Hannibal’s carefully-curated menus. </p><p>Two more weeks passed, and Will almost forgot his curiosity. </p><p>On the first day of October, however, he entered Hannibal’s home and was overwhelmed by the instantly recognizable scent of his favorite dessert. Like a dog being called to his bowl, Will hurried to the kitchen and immediately spotted a pie cooling on the countertop. He took a few steps toward it before noticing Hannibal standing motionless, observing Will’s behavior. </p><p>“Hey,” Will greeted tensely, feeling caught. </p><p>“Hello, Will,” Hannibal returned, smoothly returning movement to his body. “Dinner is almost ready.”</p><p>The younger man’s face warmed, and he cleared his throat. </p><p>“How can I help?” he offered, eager to shift the attention off of himself. </p><p>Together, they made quick work of finishing the orecchiette loaded with chorizo, wilted chard, and fresh herbs. The meal was delicious-- as always-- but Will couldn’t help feeling unusually distracted by the promise of desert. </p><p>When the time finally came and Hannibal placed two plates with perfect triangles of pie, saliva collected in the back of Will's mouth. He tried not to appear too eager as he forked off a bite and brought it to his lips. The flavor was both distinct and incredibly familiar-- satisfying and intriguing. He tasted the standard pie spices-- balanced beautifully, of course-- but there was more depth. With a second bite, Will recognized cardamom and perhaps a touch of coconut cream. With a third bite, Will noticed the flaky crust had a faint nutty tang, not dissimilar to roasted pumpkin seeds. </p><p>While Will examined each forkful and relished in the flavors, Hannibal watched intently from across the table, all pretense gone. When Will finally noticed this fact, he froze and locked eyes with the other man. </p><p>“Enjoying dessert?” Hannibal asked politely as a devilish gleam shined in his eyes. </p><p>“What did you do?” Will questioned in response.</p><p>“I’ve only created dishes with you in mind, Will,” Hannibal vaguely, almost sweetly responded. “I take great pleasure in developing a recipe you’ll appreciate.”</p><p>Will put the fork down, the idea of being poisoned crossing briefly through his mind.</p><p>Will glared as he puzzled out what had occurred. He mentally cycled through the meals they’d shared and the flavors he’d encountered. Pieces starting to connect, he looked at the pie, then looked at Hannibal. </p><p>The picture suddenly appeared in Will’s mind.</p><p>He snapped, “You conditioned me to like your pumpkin pie!”</p><p>“Will,” Hannibal began patronizingly, “I didn’t condition you. I <i>considered</i> conditioning you, but there was simply too much room for error.”</p><p>“Then you manipulated me,” Will shot back. </p><p>“One might argue all social interactions require manipulation in some way,” Hannibal replied, unperturbed. “Although I do admit I helped accelerate the development of your preferences in this one facet.”</p><p>Will felt his mouth gape open a few centimeters as he considered this. </p><p>“What made you think this would work?” Will inquired when he found his voice.</p><p>“Humans are stimulated by the novel but crave the familiar. Exposure alone can create biases,” Hannibal explained. </p><p>Will rubbed his hands over his face as he realized the full extent of Hannibal’s purpose: He didn’t want to make a pie Will liked; he wanted to make the best pie Will had ever tasted-- the one he would <i>crave.</i></p><p>A tiny voice in Will’s head whispered, <i>That son of a bitch.</i></p><p>A competing voice, however, butted in to say, <i>But it worked.</i></p><p>Hannibal and Will looked at one another with amusement and irritation respectively. Then, they resumed their meal.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Crossroads</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>All of the same disclaimers regarding timeline and established relation apply. Don’t get a toothache from the fluff 😁😁</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It started with a complaint.</p><p>The first week of September had been scorchingly hot as a final heat wave rolled through the mid-Atlantic. Will had spent most of that particular day listening to the ear-splitting sound of concrete being busted open as he and Jack waited for a driveway to be demolished so the work of retrieving the bodies under it could begin. The sun beat down on them, and by the time the crew was finished and digging commenced, both he and Jack had sweated through their shirts. </p><p>When Will finally left the scene in the early evening, he was rewarded with the gift of horrendous traffic on his way into Baltimore. The cacophony of noises-- honking, music blaring, engines revving and rumbling from every direction-- made a thousand pinpricks in Will’s already raw nerves. Adding insult to injury, not even the car’s blasting air conditioner could fully dry the sweat drenching his shirt. Not for the first time, Will Graham wondered if the universe was conspiring against him. </p><p>All of this is what led him to greet Hannibal with a scowl. </p><p>“Good evening, Will,” Hannibal greeted calmly in the face of Will’s simmering upset.</p><p>The look Will shot him as he entered the house seemed to question, <i>Is it a good evening, Dr. Lecter? Is it really?</i></p><p>As unexpectedly enticing the sight of Will was with his shirt clinging to his damp torso and his eyes piercing in barely-restrained anger, it did not take a renowned psychiatrist to see something was wrong.</p><p>“Is everything all right?” the older man asked as he watched Will fumble to unroll then reroll his bunched sleeves. </p><p>Will paused his motion and narrowed his eyes at Hannibal. Wrong question.</p><p>“I just spent an hour in traffic,” Will replied in a harsh tone, abandoning the sleeve in favor of putting his hands on his hips. “Why would anyone live in this godforsaken place?”</p><p>Hannibal's eyes scanned over the foyer, searching for the offending element.</p><p>“Not <i>this house</i>,” Will clarified as though it was painfully obvious what he was actually referring to. “Baltimore.”</p><p>Hannibal’s head tilted to the side in thought, but before he could open his mouth to articulate a response about the merits of the city, Will held up a hand.</p><p>“The city is fine. It’s just...a city. And over an hour from Wolf Trap,” Will tried to explain his irritation in a more reasonable tone. “I’m just venting. There’s nothing you can do to change it.”</p><p>Will should have known that was precisely the wrong thing to tell Hannibal Lecter, a man who had never encountered a single situation that couldn’t be twisted to meet his desires. </p><p>“I don’t imagine you’d enjoy living in this <i>godforsaken</i> place,” Hannibal mused taking a few steps past Will to resume scanning his eyes over the house, though with a new intent. </p><p>“<i>Hannibal,</i>” Will called out as Hannibal continued traveling deeper into the home. “That’s not what I meant.”</p><p>Hannibal turned back and crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes distant and wandering as he continued constructing a plan. It was a concerning look.</p><p>“Your home is quite charming, but I worry about the imposition,” Hannibal said almost entirely to himself.</p><p>“Is this a real conversation?” Will asked skeptical and with a note of indignation. “Shouldn’t I be a part of it?”</p><p>Hannibal glanced at him with a pleasant expression. Will didn’t refuse the idea. </p><p>“Of course, Will,” he replied and came closer to the other man again. “What would you like?”</p><p>Will closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to gauge if the panic in his chest came from the idea of moving, living with Hannibal, or simply the surprise of the entire situation. After a moment, he felt firm hands on his waist and caught Hannibal’s unique scent-- one that had become both a comfort and a stimulant. </p><p>The time between that moment and today was a blur of real estate listings, photographs, maps, and alternating dread and hope. This was only the second house they’d visited, Hannibal flatly rejecting anything more than an hour from the nearest respectable music hall and Will stubbornly refusing to compromise on a home that didn’t have a fireplace where his dogs could sleep in the winter (“Two common areas with fireplaces, then,” Hannibal had quickly added to Will’s demand). The first house was a bust-- too new, too open-- and it was at least a little heartening that they both agreed on that fact. </p><p>The house Will currently found himself exiting, however, was damn near perfect. Annoyingly so.</p><p>It was tucked away in a wooded area of Virginia and only accessible by twisting back roads-- a point in its favor, as far as Will was concerned. Yet, according to the maps they consulted, the drive from their doorstep to Washington’s city center was roughly 45 minutes. The house was old but more or less well-kept and had more than enough space for two men and a small pack of dogs to live comfortably. There was a spacious kitchen and dining room, both of which faced east so the morning sunlight streamed through in golden beams. There was a formal living room as well as a den downstairs, and a room that may have at one point been a bedroom but, judging by the built-in bookshelves, was now apparently some kind of office or study upstairs. A few minor projects were clearly needed-- another plus for Will-- but the home was decidedly prepared to house new residents. Of course, the real draw for him was the more-than-respectable acreage and wooded surroundings. He could picture Winston and Max chasing one another across the lawn and dodging into the treeline; he imagined himself sitting on the screened-in porch with a finger of whiskey and Buster sleeping on his feet. </p><p>Thus, while Hannibal toured the house for a second time, perhaps sensing Will’s mood lightening, Will found himself traversing the overgrown trails beyond the backyard. He traveled deeper into the woods as the paths snaked through the uneven terrain. He smiled at the thought of how thoroughly the dogs would enjoy the new challenge.</p><p> </p><p>The forest hummed with the sounds of birds and rustling early fall leaves, the ground only just becoming littered with gold and brown. Ahead, Will saw the path widen into a clearing. Stepping into it, he realized the open area had been formed by two intersecting trails. His path continued winding forward while the other--which appeared to be far more even and clear-- cut a neat line across it. Although he hadn’t been walking long, Will was tired from many sleepless nights and the emotional exhaustion of contemplating what, precisely, his life was to look like. The new path appeared to travel in a straight line back toward the house; the trail Will was already on continued in an arc which would hopefully return to his intended destination, though he couldn’t be sure. </p><p>Will perceived something foreboding in the clearcut trail-- it was too open, too clear, too revealing-- and laughed at himself awkwardly, putting a hand on the back of his neck. He was being ridiculous. He had never considered himself a superstitious man or one to read signs where there were none, but he couldn’t shake the cold tingle running up his spine when he looked back and forth down the intersecting pathway. It felt like he was on the verge of trespassing if he turned now. It was unwise to continue on his own winding, uneven trail when there was an easier route back to the house, but he couldn’t force himself to change course. </p><p>Ultimately, Will continued on the pathway, ignoring the unwelcome alternative. </p><p>About ten minutes later, he saw the house and the neat, vibrant green of the yard reappear through the trees. As he walked toward the stone patio where Hannibal and the real estate agent, a nervous woman named Laura who was too quick to laugh but nice enough, stood. </p><p>“Oh, thank goodness,” Laura called out at the sight of the dark-haired man traipsing from the woods. “I was sure you’d gotten lost!”</p><p>“Rather bad for business,” Hannibal commented coolly. </p><p>Laura laughed but eyed Will, possibly scanning him for injuries or torn clothing. </p><p>As Will reached them, he gave Hannibal a side-eyed smirk and remarked, “I see you didn’t worry yourself.”</p><p>Hannibal smiled with his eyes and replied, “You’re more than capable of handling whatever beasts lurk in the wilds of Virginia.”</p><p>A moment passed before Laura, overeager and unable to harness her energy, asked in an exaggerated, excited voice, “So, what do we think, gentlemen?”</p><p>Will’s gaze traveled across the back of the house scrutinizingly, and he crossed his arms over his chest with a loud exhale. He felt nauseated and numb in his limbs, and he couldn’t catch a deep breath.</p><p>Dispassionately and without meeting anyone’s eyes, he said, “It’s not bad.”</p><p>It took only a second for Hannibal to look at Laura and confidently state, “I believe that’s a yes.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Horror Movies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm beginning to enjoy writing these super short and terribly sweet pieces. It's a nice palate cleanser 🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On the laptop balanced over a pair of blanket-wrapped legs, a chainsaw roared and slashed across the screen. Buster’s tiny, floppy ears twisted toward the device, interested but not startled, and Will stroked one fuzzy ear between his fingers. To Will’s right side, Winston dozed heavily, unperturbed. Max made a sniffing noise from his place at Will’s feet but was otherwise undisturbed while Jack, across the room, made a whining sound. Will clicked his tongue and the dog laid his head back down on the floor but shot Will a worried look. Ellie wiggled closer to the concerned dog, offering whatever comfort a walking mop could. Only Harley fully stood at attention-- her tail wagging wildly as she heard the sounds of her favorite movie. </p><p>“C’mon, girl, there’s room,” Will gently encouraged her as he pushed Buster more fully onto his lap, clearing the space at his left side. Harley hurried over and collapsed heavily next to him. </p><p>Will couldn’t say whether it was an odd quirk his dogs came into his life with or a trait he’d imparted, but his gang had somehow cultivated a special interest in movies. Namely, horror movies. </p><p>A reasonable person might argue the dogs were intrigued by the sudden noises or quick movements typical of the genre; another might say the dogs noticed Will noticing them and wanted to please him by continuing to watch whatever he played. </p><p>Someone who knew Will personally, however, would probably say it figured that Will Graham’s dogs were a bunch of horror fiends. That tended to be the camp Will himself fell into.</p><p>The room they sat in was dark and barren; he and Hannibal had only moved into the house four days ago, and while the other man had made quick work of decorating the downstairs, Will had compelled him to slow his pace upstairs. Will cringed at the finality of deeming one room a spare bedroom and another an office until they’d had a few days to experience their new home and see each space more clearly; Hannibal agreed but with the condition that Will would decide precisely what character each room possessed by the one-week mark. It was a compromise they both could live with, and Will was more than a little proud of them for navigating it without bloodshed or psychological warfare.</p><p>Still, the look on Hannibal’s face when he came to stand in the doorway only to behold six dogs and zero furniture suggested he was regretting his benevolence. The sound of a woman screaming and Harley’s excited tail wagging in response served to deepen the crease in his brow. </p><p>He watched Will from the door until the younger man was finally uncomfortable enough to hit pause and look up. </p><p>For a few, long seconds, seven sets of eyes stared at Hannibal Lecter expectantly. </p><p>A heavy exhale escaped his lips and Will opened his mouth to speak, but Hannibal only held up his hand, turned on his heel, and walked back in the direction he came from. </p><p>As the doctor made his way down the stairs, the sounds of a scream queen being chased through the forest by a madman with a chainsaw trailed after him.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Pumpkin Spice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“No,” Hannibal firmly stated, removing the lid from the disposable coffee cup and emptying the contents into the sink with seamless movement. The smell of cream, spices, and espresso wafted upward. </p><p>Will’s mouth opened and closed, his hand still raised from where he had been holding the offending drink only a few seconds earlier. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but having a perfectly good drink plucked from his hands and unceremoniously dumped was a new form of indignity. </p><p>“I paid for that,” Will said with his eyes fixed on the sink. That wasn’t the issue, but it was a fact nonetheless.</p><p>“A pity,” Hannibal replied without remorse, then turned on the faucet to rinse away any remnants of the offensive liquid.</p><p>Will clamped his mouth shut, not trusting it.</p><p>Living together had been an exercise in patience for both of them from the first day when Hannibal monitored the movers-- not the ones he had recommended Will hire-- to ensure not a single scuff was left on the hardwood floors. In the two weeks between that day and now, Hannibal and Will had managed to negotiate treaties on such important matters as whether or not one should reuse a bath towel two days in a row (“We are not animals, Will.”) and whether or not fly fishing magazines deserved a place in the study (“If your journals belong here, so do <i>these</i>.”). Through it all, Hannibal had maintained his sense of politeness-- they disagreed but didn’t quite fight. No, fights were reserved for matters such as Will’s final throes of morality and Hannibal’s seemingly random moments of guarded iciness. </p><p>But this morning, Will was in no mood to be trifled with. </p><p>After a cold night where Hannibal’s silence outweighed his warmth, Will had risen earlier than the other man and set out into the cold October morning with a restless body and exhausted mind. He enjoyed the cold and spent more than an hour wandering around the town on the far outskirts of the DC area that was the backdrop for their new home. </p><p>The downtown-- if it could be called that-- was styled in a manner reminiscent of the early 1900s with exposed brick storefronts and whitewashed pillars. <i>Quaint</i> Hannibal had called it, although Will later caught him pulling up a map to determine travel time from their doorstep to the art museum he was still very much a patron of. Nevertheless, after watching Will and Winston walk happily across the large yard then disappear into the patch of forest behind the house, Hannibal had decided he could live with quaint. </p><p>The cold finally getting to him, Will had retreated into a coffee shop heavily styled after Starbucks but with an East Coast twist. A young woman with blue hair named Delta-- was that even a name?-- vaguely explained the menu’s complicated concoctions that qualified as coffee in only the basest sense of the word. Ultimately, wanting to end the painful exchange, Will had accepted the day’s special: The White Raven. </p><p>Which was, it turned out, for all intents and purposes, a pumpkin spice latte. </p><p>He’d taken a few sips, frowned at the cloying sweetness, then resigned himself to carrying the cup around for warmth but not sustenance. Truth be told, he planned on doing exactly as Hannibal had done and then making himself an actual cup of coffee at home. But as soon as Will walked into the kitchen, Hannibal rose with eyes softer than they’d been the previous night and reconciliation on his tongue-- until, that is, he smelled The White Raven on Will’s breath. </p><p>That was how they found themselves deadlocked at 9:54 AM on a sunny autumn Saturday. </p><p>Will worked his jaw and crossed his arms over his chest, preparing for a verbal assault. In return, Hannibal’s eyebrows rose challengingly. </p><p><i>I’m not afraid of you,</i> they both seemed to scream with their small movements.</p><p>“I will not be told what to drink in my own house,” Will snapped, firing first. </p><p>“And I will not be subjected to the scent of artificial pumpkin in my own home,” Hannibal volleyed back. </p><p>“Of course-- Hannibal Lecter’s aesthetic wouldn’t allow it,” Will spat. </p><p>“I sense you are critiquing more than my palate, Will,” Hannibal responded flatly, a dangerous tone from him. </p><p>Will was working himself toward righteous anger, though, and he was utterly unworried by the man’s intense stare. </p><p>“How <i>observant</i> of you, Dr. Lecter,” Will replied spitefully. Then, voice growing louder as he became more upset, Will continued, “We sleep on <i>your</i> sheets. We eat <i>your</i> food. We bathe with <i>your</i> soap. Every wall of this house is yours, and you don't even want to be here.”</p><p>Will’s teeth were bared by the time he finished, and his heart rate had increased noticeably. He watched Hannibal’s face for a reaction. </p><p>Curiosity was not the emotion Will had anticipated. </p><p>“What do you mean, Will?”</p><p>The calm tone rattled Will, and he made a dismissive noise. Hannibal waited for a more articulate response.</p><p>“I know you’d rather be in the city,” Will stated with as much control as he could muster. “There’s no symphony, no art museums-- barely any museums at all. This isn’t what you’d have chosen, and now you and I are both trapped here.”</p><p>“Do you feel trapped?” Hannibal asked, the curiosity still apparent in his furrowed brow and tilted head. </p><p>Will raked a hand through his hair and sighed, feeling more of the tension ease away. It appeared Hannibal was not willing to give him a fight based on a glorified pumpkin spice latte.</p><p>“No. Yes. It’s complicated,” Will poorly explained. He took a deep breath and tried again, “I feel like I’ve used all of the favors I’m going to get.”</p><p>“So you accept my preferences to placate me?” Hannibal questioned, a bit sharper than before. </p><p>“I accommodate you,” Will offered. He added more softly, “We both make sacrifices.”</p><p>Hannibal’s gaze swept across the kitchen, and he leaned back against the countertop. His jaw wasn’t clenched, but it was tighter than Will was accustomed to seeing it. </p><p>Finally, the older man with glinting gray and blonde hair looked at Will sidelong and asked, “Do you believe I could be manipulated into living somewhere I had no hope of considering a home?”</p><p>Will’s eyes dropped to his boot-clad feet as the rest of his useless adrenaline rushed away. </p><p>“When you say it like that…,” Will trailed off, a trace of humor in his voice. </p><p>He watched as Hannibal’s jaw loosened and the muscles in his neck relaxed. </p><p>“Sacrifices are made willingly,” Hannibal reflected. “I chose the option I most preferred. I don’t regret it. Generally.” </p><p>The last word echoed Will’s teasing tone, and it felt as though air had reentered the room at last. </p><p>“I don't mind your sheets-- or your food,” Will conceded as he came to lean next to Hannibal, shoulders touching.</p><p>“I’d like us both to be at home here,” Hannibal said quietly, more to himself than to Will. As he turned his head to look at Will, he spoke a bit louder, “The prospect of happiness leaves no room for resentment.”</p><p>They stood in silence for a few long moments, shoulders pressing more heavily into one another as they leaned together. </p><p>“Does that mean you’re sorry for dumping my drink?” Will asked lightly.</p><p>“No, but I’ll teach you how to make something better,” Hannibal answered as he took Will by the wrist and led him to the espresso machine across the kitchen.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Haunting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡Almost caught up to the current date! 🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two weeks into living together in a new house, Hannibal flew to New York City for a conference; the sponsoring organization invited him to present on— of all things— the efficacy of talk therapy with patients suffering from severe anxiety following a traumatic event. Hannibal would be gone only one night, although through some idle web searching, Will had found the event was scheduled to last three full days. That tiny, innocent revelation made a spool of warmth unravel and roll from Will’s chest to his stomach, though he’d never admit it to anyone, including himself. </p><p>Still, spending a night alone sounded like an undeserved gift from the heavens. </p><p>Not that Will disliked living with Hannibal, of course. Transitioning into a shared space had been as smooth as it could possibly be for two men who lived alone their entire adult lives and who cultivated strong preferences during that time. Hannibal moved his antlered skull from the fireplace in Baltimore to the fireplace in Virginia, and Will transported his tools for crafting lures from an old desk in one house to a refinished craft table in a different, larger house. Maybe Hannibal was a bit particular about decor, but he didn’t balk when Will draped a flannel throw blanket he’d had since college over an armchair. And maybe Will was a tad protective of his belongings, but he admitted the scruffy end table which once sat by his couch did look more intentionally rustic with a vase of orchids on top. </p><p>In short, Will deemed their progress <i>pretty okay</i>. The lack of bloodshed was a testament to that.</p><p>Solitude was a gift, though, and not one Will undervalued. From the moment he dropped Hannibal off at the airport, glee filled the air around Will. He stopped at a grocery store on the way home— a normal grocery store, not the gourmet one thirty minutes away or the farmer’s market that would be swamped with young families by midday— and chose his indulgences. Among his purchases was a jar of peanut butter with a colorful label and at least three added ingredients Hannibal would have disapproved of (“Palm oil, Will? Must you?” the accented voice in Will’s head asked in exasperation) as well as a small bag of pretzels that possessed zero nutritional value. </p><p>Prior to Hannibal entering his life, eating was a nuisance and food only a necessity, so it didn’t seem to matter whether that food was a homemade meal or a handful of pretzels dipped in peanut butter. The only meals Will had prized were the ones shaped around his latest catch. Therefore, when Hannibal entered his life and transformed meals from a requirement to a religion, the shift in Will’s perception of each bite was akin to when Will first put on a pair of glasses and could see the individual leaves on the tree across his father’s expansive yard. </p><p>All that being true, Will’s taste buds still occasionally cried out for processed carbohydrates and nut butters laden with additives. He supposed nobody could cure a lifetime of vending machine snacks with a year of pate. </p><p>By 10:00 that evening, Will had thoroughly enjoyed the least healthy meal he’d had the opportunity to consume in many months, and he, Winston, and Harley were on a bed in one of the guest rooms watching a cheesy ‘80s horror movie. The window was half-open, and the early October air was delightfully chilly.  It was the most normal Will had felt in the oversized home, and he had a vague notion that maybe being alone was just what he needed to start seeing the house as <i>his</i>, or at least <i>theirs,</i> instead of Hannibal’s. </p><p>That warm thought had just crossed Will’s mind when a crunching noise sounded from somewhere outside. Squirrels, Will surmised, and dismissed the sound. </p><p>A few minutes later, just as he began to relax against the stack of pillows behind him, the noise once more drifted upward from the ground below to Will’s window. Leaves crunched and slid dryly against one another as <i>something</i> trudged forward. </p><p>The prolonged rustling moved Will to action. He sat the laptop aside and disentangled himself from the mess of dogs and blankets. He walked lightly to the window, inexplicably wary. Raccoons, deer, even a black bear might have made the sounds, and none of those options were particularly worrisome for someone with no intention of harassing the animal. Peering over the window sill while showing as little of himself as possible, Will scanned the area quickly— and saw nothing. </p><p>An uneasy, embarrassed laugh escaped Will’s throat at his own jumpiness and returned to his spot on the bed, still warm and waiting for him. </p><p>By 10:30, the movie was over, and the dogs were fast asleep, sprawled across the guest bedroom. Will extricated himself from the pile of fur and blankets and went downstairs. The lights were off and the sliver of a moon in the overcast sky didn’t provide much light, even through the oversized windows. The darkness made the walls feel incredibly close yet also much further away, the weight of the shadows crushing even as the blackness made it difficult to tell where a hallway might end. </p><p>Will arrived in the kitchen and poured a glass of water, still feeling silly for his discomfort. As he walked past the expansive window that usually warmed the kitchen with sunlight, he looked out across the inky yard, shook his head, and continued his path to the staircase. He only reached the doorway, however, when a new sound wafted from outside and slid into his ears: Whispers. </p><p>A chill ran down the center of Will’s back just as his arms tightened and chest tingled with a sudden rush of adrenaline. The heartbeat thudding in Will’s ears drowned out all other noise, and he had to remind himself to take a deep breath. Shushing his own screaming thoughts— most of them involving Will knife-deep in an intruder— he tried to listen. </p><p>Silence. </p><p>But only for a few, breathless seconds.</p><p>The whispering resumed, and Will strained to listen and hear where it came from. It was faint and mumbled, too much so for Will to make out any words or many details of the voice, and the words tumbled rapidly one after another. Will turned his head and focused, trying to identify the direction the voice was coming from. Tilting his head and closing his eyes, the sound was a low hum in the room that he perceived coming from the opposite wall of the kitchen— the wall he had just been staring at with the large, arched window. He flickered his eyes open and scanned across the room and what was visible of the yard beyond the window, seeing nothing still. For a cold moment, the absurd image of a ghostly specter floating somewhere just beyond sight filled Will with a tangible dread. </p><p>Will shuddered and took a few steps into the kitchen, staying close to the wall. Will might be some kind of crazy, but he wasn’t the “ghosts whispering the walls” variety. Which meant, Will could safely assume, the sound was coming from outside. The further Will walked into the kitchen, the louder the whispering was. </p><p>Until it wasn’t. </p><p>He was almost at the window, and the idea of being so close to a person who thought it fair to sneak around <i>his</i> and dare to try to make him feel unsafe replaced the icy anxiety that had been mounting within him with hot anger. </p><p>Riding the tidal wave of his wrath, Will stealthily slipped back into the dark, picked up a knife from the wooden block on the island, and prowled into the dining room, headed for the door that led to the screened-in back sunroom. His hand went to the lock and turned it slowly, the clinking of metal turning maddeningly loud in the dark. </p><p>Unlocked, he turned the handle and slid the door open just a few inches— enough to see but not enough to trigger the creak he anticipated hearing when the hinges— that he really needed to oil— gave a high-pitched whine. He expected to see a beast of a man, tense and ready to attack.</p><p>What he found lurking in the shadows, however, was far more terrifying: Freddie Lounds.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Sweaters</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you to everyone reading, and extra special thanks to those commenting. I'm so glad the fluff is enjoyable enough! 🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Freddie Lounds crouched beneath Will’s kitchen window, ducked low and whispering into a cell phone. The glow of the device lit her fair skin and flaming hair enough there could be no doubt as to her identity. Anger flaring, Will slipped out the door he was standing behind, letting the hinges screech. It was more than a little satisfying to see Freddie jump straight upright and hold her phone out threateningly. Will gripped the knife in his hand a bit tighter but let his shoulder roll back so the blade was hidden behind his thigh. </p><p>“Freddie, get off my property,” Will bluntly commanded, voice bearing no friendliness. </p><p>The hand holding the phone lowered slowly back to Freddie’s side, and she straightened her coat as she gave a haughty toss of her hair. </p><p>From behind the walls of the sunroom, Will glared. He doubted Freddie could see him well between the dark and the effect of the screens, but he hoped she could feel his hatred for her clawing across the distance between them. </p><p>“Will Graham,” Freddie greeted neutrally, as though they merely ran into one another at the grocery store. “This is quite an upgrade.”</p><p>“Leave,” Will growled through a tightened jaw. </p><p>“If that’s how you greet old friends, no wonder you don’t have any,” Freddie retorted, her words meant to be cutting.</p><p>“You don’t belong here,” the glowering man in the shadows whispered loudly.</p><p>Freddie’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and she took the smallest step back before catching herself and planting her feet firmly once more. </p><p>“One could argue you don’t either,” Freddie snapped, though her venom now held the scent of wariness. When Will didn’t instantly respond, Freddie went on in a stronger voice, “I’m here to see Dr. Lecter. I believe his attorney reviewed the deed, and sources report he paid for this <i>lovely</i> home-- in full. I have questions; inquiring minds, you know.”</p><p>Freddie was lying. Not about everything, of course, but she was lying nonetheless. Her interest was the FBI’s resident profiler/alleged psychopath shacking up with a mysterious man who may or may not have been his psychiatrist. What a lovely spread Freddie would have had if only she had come to hide in the bushes a day earlier-- the men cooking dinner side-by-side, washing dishes like a highly efficient assembly line, sitting on the patio together surrounded by dogs, christening aforementioned patio with the dogs corralled safely indoors...</p><p>“Joint tenancy. Now get the hell off my property,” Will answered low and threatening. His thumb stroked the hilt of the knife but kept it concealed. </p><p>“A rich doctor-- wouldn’t have pegged you for the type, but hey, mazel tov,” Freddie called out, voice a notch louder in response to Will’s dropping lower. “Unless he was <i>your</i> doctor…”</p><p>Will’s body ached to shake itself loose of his mind’s tight control. It would be so easy, so satisfying. But something about spilling the rancid blood of Freddie Lounds across the grass of the home he and Hannibal had lived in for less than a month seemed like a bad omen of sorts. Freddie Lounds was noticeable-- painfully so-- and she would be missed. She had just spoken to someone on her cell phone only minutes ago, and that someone likely knew where she was. Even if they didn’t, the call location would be traceable should she inexplicably disappear. Freddie Lounds wasn’t quite untouchable, but she needed to be dealt with carefully-- not on impulse with a hastily chosen butcher’s knife. </p><p>Forcing his voice to sound human, Will replied, “Rich doctors have very good attorneys.” He let the statement sink in for just a moment before threatening, “If you’re not gone in two minutes, I’m calling the police.”</p><p>Freddie started to call out after him, but Will purposefully didn’t hear her as he turned and reentered the house. Inside, he pressed himself against the door and waited. He counted the seconds and finally released the breath he had been holding when he heard the sound of a vehicle at the far end of the driveway turned on gravel with a crunching sound. </p><p>Will hurried to the front of the house and watched as a red Jeep pulled back onto the back road that wound to Will and Hannibal’s home. </p><p>Anxious and simmering with unspent anger, Will paced the house with heavy steps. It was nearly 11:00, but any thought of sleep had slipped from Will’s mind. By midnight, he decided to put his energy to better use and finally oiled all of the door hinges-- starting with the one to the sunroom. At some point after 1:00 AM, Will found himself finally calming. He climbed into the king-sized bed with no real hope of sleep, tired but restless. Will tossed and turned; he thought of Freddie and Hannibal and Jack Crawford, the man in part responsible for merging his and Hannibal’s paths. He felt unmoored and alone in the spacious, dark room. </p><p>It was 3:27 AM when Will got up to get another drink of water. He wasn’t so fussy that he couldn’t refill his glass from the bathroom tap-- Hannibal would be horrified-- so it was a short trip. As he placed the glass back on the nightstand and stretched, something hung over the back of the armchair in the corner of the bedroom caught his eye: A red sweater. Not just any red sweater-- the red sweater Hannibal had briefly worn this morning, as he had so many other mornings, while he made coffee for them both then dressed Will’s to the younger man’s specifications by memory. It was unlike Hannibal to leave any article of clothing out of place, but it was possible he had considered bringing it with him on his short trip but then thought better of it and left it there in his hurry. It was equally-- if not more-- possible Hannibal left it there solely to remind Will of his presence in spirit if not body.</p><p>A sentimental, soft feeling that was so foreign it felt breakable tugged in Will’s chest. Unthinking, he crossed the room and snatched the article of clothing off the chair, then returned to bed and tucked himself under the covers. The sweater was clutched in Will’s fingers, and the faint scent of Hannibal-- all cedar and spice-- surrounded the garment in a subtle halo. </p><p>The smell-- so familiar now and achingly comforting-- gave the impression Will was not alone dealing with Freddie’s intrusion and sharp words. </p><p>Before 4:00 AM, Will was asleep, mind finally quiet enough to allow him rest.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Possessed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hannibal, the <i>Malleus Maleficarum</i>? Seriously?” Will asked exasperatedly from the upstairs study’s doorway. In his hands was the book in question, the copy appropriately forbidding with black leather binding.<br/>
Sharp brown eyes flickered between the book and Will’s long-suffering expression. </p><p>Hannibal stood from his armchair, placing his sketchpad on the seat. He crossed the room at a leisurely pace, his eyes focusing in on Will. When he came to stand directly before the younger man, he politely asked, “May I?” and put a hand on the spine of the book, his thumb brushing across Will’s fingers. </p><p>Will’s grip, however, only tightened.</p><p>“Why have you decided to read this?” he questioned more clearly.</p><p>Hannibal’s fingers released the book and came to wrap loosely around Will’s wrist, a gentle touch. </p><p>“Does it offend your moral sensibilities, Will?” Hannibal purred in the close proximity.</p><p>Will gave a wry chuckle through a deep exhale and looked at Hannibal doubtfully.</p><p>“Try again,” he said directly into the dark-- and currently mischievous-- eyes. </p><p>“Hmm…,” Hannibal hummed, an impression of deep thought. “Worried I might accuse you of witchcraft?”</p><p>Will’s eyebrows popped up at the absurdity that any accusation would be leveled against him from Hannibal, of all people. </p><p>“You’re not left-handed, but you do have a rather wide pool of familiars from which to choose,” Hannibal commented gravely. He dropped his hand from Will’s wrist to his side, right above his belt. “Did you abscond to the forest and commune with demons? Slaughter an innocent on Satan’s altar? Or perhaps you have charmed the Devil into your bedroom and he has your soul as we speak?”</p><p>Will rolled his eyes but flushed as the hand crept to his lower back. Only he would find himself in flirtation based on Medieval demonology. He puffed out a sigh that ended on a ragged note in spite of his best efforts and took a small step backward into the hallway. He had felt a pang of concern for a reason when he first saw the text and opened it to the bookmarked page. </p><p>“I had to Google <i>strappado</i>,” Will harshly replied. “What are you planning?”</p><p>For a split second, Hannibal’s face went blank but not cold. Then, rapidly processing and inferring Will’s meaning, a small smile pulled up the corners of his mouth.</p><p>“Will, you give me too much credit,” Hannibal responded and crossed his arms over his chest, tipping his head in amusement. “Pleasure reading only, I assure you. Although, I do have one particular witch in mind when I picture the authors’ more exotic recommendations.”</p><p>The dark-haired man narrowed his eyes as he tried to read whether Hannibal was telling him the truth. He did not, however, question if the witch in Hannibal’s imaginings had red hair and a habit of trespassing.</p><p>As satisfied as he was going to get, Will offered the book to Hannibal. </p><p>“I’m not building a rack,” Will deadpanned as the book was taken out of his hand. </p><p>“We haven’t room for one,” Hannibal remarked rhetorically as he turned to place the book on the writing desk in the corner of the room. By the time he turned to look back at Will for further teasing, the younger man was gone. </p><p>On his way downstairs, Will fleetingly wondered if this was the first time Hannibal had considered the logistics of torture devices in the house.</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Apple Orchards</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>More fluff and humor? Why yes, yes it is. </p>
<p>🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>To say Hannibal was particular about his ingredients would perhaps be the largest understatement in recorded human history. It wasn’t entirely certain whether Hannibal even registered the existence of chain grocery stores or if his eyes spared his brain that knowledge by transforming the image of each passing Wal-Mart and Target into a blissful blur. </p>
<p>Therefore, when Hannibal went grocery shopping, it was unfailingly an event. Shopping in a new town, it turned out, was closer in nature to finding a needle in a haystack, then repeating that process until the end of time. </p>
<p>First, it was meat-- of course. Aside from his free range selections, Hannibal required an actual butcher at his disposal as well: One he could trust to know the ins and outs of each individual animal’s life history and then skillfully, lovingly cut them to perfection. The only one available in their small town was a spectacular failure, as Hannibal’s probing was met with vague responses, then irritation, and finally an aggressive, “Listen, buddy, are you going to order something or not?”</p>
<p>
  <i>(At home, Will argued, “You shouldn’t kill the only butcher. Where will his customers go?” To which Hannibal replied, “Supply and demand. Capitalism is a motivating force.”)</i>
</p>
<p>After that, he began trekking out to farms to arrange procurement from the source directly.</p>
<p>Next, it was oils-- olive oil, grapeseed oil, coconut oil, sesame oil, possibly Triceratops oil for all Will cared. A couple entering their golden years who long owned a boutique oil and herb shop in the town’s tiny downtown-- only two doors up from the maligned purveyors of pumpkin spice lattes-- were the only local option. Hannibal almost physically turned his nose up at the dried herb selection, but without much option, he proceeded to the checkout counter to interrogate the little old woman sitting there. Much like his experience with the butcher, Hannibal came armed with a litany of rapidfire questions: Where are the olives grown? Cold-pressed? Aged? Tell me about the bottling process. How are they shipped? Stored? And so on…</p>
<p>Much to Will’s pleasant surprise, the woman answered each question genially and in great detail through a prominent Appalachian accent. The moment she truly won Hannibal’s stomach, however, was when she conspiratorially asked him if he cooked <i>real</i> food, then led him to a cellar where the higher-priced goods were hidden away. The culinary elitist in Hannibal practically glowed as he left the store with two large bags and a downright friendly, “Thank you so much, Edna. I’ll return soon.”</p>
<p>
  <i>(In the car, Will teased, “You and Edna seemed to click.” To which Hannibal replied, “Jealousy is an ugly trait, Will.”)</i>
</p>
<p>Quality produce, thankfully, was easy enough to come by in their sliver of the world. In addition to individual farms-- where eggs and honey also tended to be available and to Hannibal’s standards-- farmer’s markets reoccurred like clockwork. A ritual emerged of rising not long after sunrise on Saturday mornings and driving twenty minutes to a strip of land outside of the ostensible “town” with the purpose of perusing each stand’s offerings with a critical eye. Hannibal painstakingly examined the produce and selected it based on criteria Will had heard much about but internalized very little of; if the farmers were chagrined by the performance, they didn’t let on. These trips were invariably successful.</p>
<p>
  <i>(Unpacking groceries, Will wondered, “I see the same pile of acorn squash as you. What makes this specific one special?” To which Hannibal replied, “How did I recognize your potential amid a pile of FBI agents?”)</i>
</p>
<p>Thus, all of their culinary history together had prepared Will for the unique, rural autumn activities that caught Hannibal’s interest during the first October in their new home. They scouted pumpkin patches-- did not actually buy any pumpkins because it was too early in the month-- and scoured corn fields. They even took a detour through a corn maze at one owner’s behest, an activity that Dr. Lecter completed in record time in his full, three-piece suit.  </p>
<p>On the second Saturday of October, it was an apple orchard that called out to Hannibal. </p>
<p>
  <i>(Will questioned innocently, “Oh, we’re going to pick apples?” To which Hannibal replied, “Of course not. At least one frost is required before they will be at all palatable.”)</i>
</p>
<p>So, much like the pumpkin patch, Hannibal and Will walked along the rows of trees with no intention of picking a single fruit. Will enjoyed the serenity of the orchard while Hannibal scrutinized each tree, keeping a hand placed somewhere on the other man’s person at all times. </p>
<p>Through the first section of the orchard, Hannibal was silent. His hand rested firmly on Will’s upper back between his shoulder blades.</p>
<p>A few more rows in, Hannibal made a dissatisfied hum. His hand gently pressed against Will’s lower back.</p>
<p>Midway through the fields, Hannibal sighed. His hand dropped to Will’s and entangled their fingers. </p>
<p>Many quiet minutes later, they approached a denser, more gnarled set of trees that were surrounded by weeds, and Hannibal whispered, “Oh” with the barest hint of returning optimism. His hand gripped Will’s more tightly and half dragged him toward the beckoning grove. </p>
<p>Surrounded by older growth and far from the entrance-- Will wasn’t entirely sure this part of the orchard was meant to be traversed-- Hannibal finally spoke, “The heirloom varieties of apple trees produced complex, signature fruits. A farmer could tell the country of origin by smell and taste alone. Some were said to taste like roses.” His hand dropped Will’s and snaked around his waist. </p>
<p>“Any idea what these will taste like?” Will asked, indulging the other man. His own knowledge of apples was entirely practical and based more on regional availability than heritage. </p>
<p>“Not in the slightest,” Hannibal answered while his eyes continued scanning the trees, transfixed. It was unlikely this mystery would last long, however, as Will could already foresee a trove of books on the history of apples, apple growing, apple identification, the impact of climate on apples, and any other number of apple-centric topics appearing in the study. </p>
<p>Without needing to speak further, the pair eventually turned back and made their way toward the parking lot and sales stand at the other end of the orchard. </p>
<p>Hannibal was in a markedly better mood.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Fake Blood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Does Hannibal get any kind of sexual thrill out of killing? Not at all. </p>
<p>Does he feel *ahem* a stir of hunger at Will Graham demonstrating arguable levels of sanity? Hard yes.</p>
<p>🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a form of therapy, really.</p>
<p>At least that was what Will Graham told himself as he compiled materials in the backyard. </p>
<p>He measured and cut wood precisely, then affixed the two thin boards into a t-shaped frame. Next, he cut the burlap and pulled the loose ends together. He stitched the ends half-way, then crammed handfuls of leaves and wood chips into the opening, forming a firm, circular object roughly the size and shape of a basketball. Then, he stitched the stuffed sack almost closed and shook it a few times to ensure his creation was properly spherical. He drizzled super glue over the bottom of the circle and neatly placed it onto an upturned, plasticky red wig. He left the orb and wig to move onto the next phase of his project.</p>
<p>He stared at the tablecloth in his hands; it was one from his old house that Hannibal had relegated to a back corner of the linen closet. Will didn’t use the tablecloth when he lived alone, so it wasn’t the emotional attachment or indignation of having his taste questioned--yet again-- that gave him pause. No, he felt it was possible that sewing a tablecloth into a dress to adorn a red-headed scarecrow was maybe not something stable people did. This step was the only one that caused Will to pause for just a moment and consider if his actions were entirely sane. </p>
<p>But it was the only alternative he had to putting his hands around Freddie Lounds’ throat, so he’d have to make do.</p>
<p>Will sewed the tablecloth into an interpretation of a dress directly on the t-frame that would serve as a simple skeleton for the scarecrow. It wasn’t a beautiful dress by any means, but Will felt he’d created something suitable enough to withstand a season of rain and wind. The old windbreaker that went over it hid part of the seam and felt like a proper stylistic touch, Will thought. </p>
<p>Attaching the head, red wig and all, and tying twine around the scarecrow’s “neck” to ensure the whole assembly stayed together was terribly satisfying. </p>
<p>There were only a few more tasks until his project was complete when Will realized time had ceased to pass at a normal rate that afternoon as he allowed himself to become absorbed in his work. Two hours had already come and gone somehow. Will shook his head, continued his work, and idly thought how strange it was that Hannibal had not so much as popped his head out of the kitchen window to check in on his progress. </p>
<p>Will buried the bottom of the longer pole in the ground and set a circle of heavy rocks around it for added stability. Then, he crowned the scarecrow with a straw hat, the likes of which Freddie Lounds would most definitely not be caught dead wearing. </p>
<p>
  <i>A vision of Freddie hanging in a field-- a human scarecrow-- flashed across Will’s mind but was gone as quickly as it had come.</i>
</p>
<p>Seeing only the burlap in front of him once more, he stuck pins through the hat to ensure it wouldn’t go flying off across the yard any time soon. Finally, he stepped back and observed his handiwork. It was almost done-- almost perfect.</p>
<p>
  <i>Almost.</i>
</p>
<p>The last-- and arguably most joyful-- task was ready to be completed. Will picked up the jar of Halloween prop blood-- procured from the same costume shop as the horrible wig--  unscrewed the lid, and began hurling handfuls of blood at the scarecrow. He knew he could’ve used a paintbrush or a squirt bottle, and his hands would be stained red for at least a few days, but it felt <i>so good</i>. </p>
<p>Therapy. Right.</p>
<p>Ropes of fake blood landed across not-Freddie’s face and dress. Gory handprints streaked down one sleeve of the windbreaker. A spritz of blood dotted the brim of the pale yellow straw hat. The rocks below collected the extra drips in darkening pools. All the while, Will flicked his fingers, flipped his wrists to send blood flying, and pulled at fabric with slippery hands.. </p>
<p>In all fairness, he <i>did</i> feel less animosity toward Freddie Lounds by the time the jar was empty and his hands were covered in red. So it was, technically, therapeutic. </p>
<p> His work jeans had caught more than a little bit of the splatter, and he was sure his black t-shirt had as well, although it didn’t show distinctly. Now, he was finished. </p>
<p>Which meant it was time to clean up his materials. Horror movies never showed that part of constructing effigies.</p>
<p>Logical thought returning, Will began wiping his hands on the old drop cloth he had brought out and used to keep screws from getting lost in the grass. As he was toweling his hands, Will’s eyes caught something in a window of the house: Hannibal’s intense, immeasurable presence filled the window situated just beyond the top of the stairs. The man stared down at Will with his lips minutely parted and his eyes fixed on nothing but Will and his actions. Even upon being caught, Hannibal maintained his gaze. Will wondered how long he had been there, watching the work with growing intrigue and appreciation. </p>
<p>Will didn’t need to speculate when the appreciation had turned to something more compelling.</p>
<p>The stained towel still in his reddened hands, Will gave a weak wave. One of Hannibal’s hands came up to the glass, his fingertips pressing against the flat surface. Hannibal hated smudges on windows. </p>
<p>Will swallowed hard but broke the eye contact and continued about his task of cleaning up the backyard. By the time he finished a short while later, Hannibal was gone from the window. It was drastically more alarming for the man to be <i>somewhere</i> in the house doing <i>something</i> than clearly in Will’s line of vision. Curiosity drove Will to rapidly return to the house, not casting a second glance at the bleeding scarecrow. </p>
<p>He opened the back door with the cleanest part of the drop cloth he could detect and left his shoes by the door. The kitchen and dining room were dark, empty. So was the living room and the den (other than the dogs who gave Will a few lazy tail wags but not much else). </p>
<p>“Hannibal?” Will eventually called out from the base of the stairs. </p>
<p>No response.</p>
<p>He climbed the staircase, saw the window with its new fingerprints in front of him, then looked both ways. To his left, the study light seemed to be off, the guest room doors were still firmly closed. To his right, however, Will saw the master bedroom door open and warm light streaming into the hallway that was otherwise darkening as the late afternoon turned to evening. </p>
<p>Will began walking in that direction, calling out once more, “Hannibal?”</p>
<p>This time, he received a reply in the form of a perfectly composed, “In the master bathroom, Will.”</p>
<p>A knot of tension Will hadn't fully recognized as forming in his stomach loosened. There was still a part of him that valued his own survival very much and recognized Hannibal as a lion instead of a housecat. As Will made his way into the bedroom, he heard the water running and walked casually to the half-opened bathroom door, careful not to touch anything with his hands. </p>
<p>Hannibal sat on a stool that was usually tucked under the vanity but that was now pulled directly next to the oversized bathtub. He looked up at Will, eyes dark.</p>
<p>Oh. <i>Oh.</i></p>
<p>Will entered the bathroom and pressed the door shut behind him with a socked foot.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Scythe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Will walked past the arched entryway to the den as he had dozens of times since they moved into their new home. His brain idly processed snippets of what he saw in his peripheral vision-- furry bodies snuggled by the fire as evening turned to night, a warm glow of light, a rod hung above the fireplace…</p>
<p>He halted a few feet beyond the doorway and took inventory of what his eyes told his brain they had seen. Turning and taking two steps back toward the den, Will surveyed the scene in front of him: Dogs-- check. Fire-- check. Scythe-- ah. Well, he told himself, at least he hadn’t hallucinated the dark tool hung precisely above the mantle. There was little mystery as to who brought the item into their home and mounted it; that didn’t explain <i>why</i>, however. Assuming, of course, there even was a reason for the weapon beyond a slow plot to grate Will’s nerves as thoroughly as possible without breaking him. </p>
<p>At least the dogs didn’t seem bothered by the newest decor in what was, for all intents and purposes, their room. </p>
<p>Will found Hannibal at the dining room table, a cookbook that could be more appropriately called a tome to his left and a thick journal of parchment paper to his right, the man’s hand moving across the page in curls and sweeps as he wrote. The sight wasn’t uncommon, but something in the quiet studiousness tended to give Will pause when he encountered Hannibal writing recipes notes or jotting down ideas. The scene gave the effect of a painting, one too warm and docile for Will to believe could exist in any home of his without the paint cracking down the center. </p>
<p>Not permitting himself this pleasure, however, Will continued on his information finding mission. </p>
<p>“Are we redecorating already?” Will asked in a clipped voice.</p>
<p>Hannibal looked up unworried at the man who stood over him now.</p>
<p>“One of my new patients deals antiques. It was a gift,” the man at the table answered with unrushed words, not bothering to pretend ignorance.</p>
<p>Will tilted his head skeptically.</p>
<p>“And you had no say in this gift?” he pressed. </p>
<p>“It would have been rude to decline,” Hannibal simply, cheerily responded.</p>
<p>That wasn’t the question.</p>
<p>“You had no choice in its selection?” Will asked, voice warning Hannibal not to offer a slippery reply.</p>
<p>Hannibal’s eyes crinkled at the sides, fine lines creating a smile that rarely drifted down to his lips. Although, truthfully, it had become less rare as of late. </p>
<p>“In a previous session, we happened to discuss the karuta armor I couldn’t find a suitable place for after our move. Perhaps he took pity on me,” Hannibal explained, voice tinged with the slightest note of humor. </p>
<p>“I didn’t ask you to get rid of the samurai suit,” Will responded on the verge of incredulity, eyebrows raising higher on his forehead. </p>
<p>“Nor did I make such a claim. It wouldn’t have matched the character of our new surroundings. An agrarian instrument seems befitting, though,” the older man replied with careful words and a sly grin trying desperately to surface across his lips.</p>
<p>Will put a hand to his face, sensing the futility of this conversation. He was only giving Hannibal exactly what he wanted from his newest acquisition-- Will annoyed just enough for entertainment but not enough for friction. </p>
<p>Sighing, Will remarked, “I don’t think the dogs have approved.”</p>
<p>“Zoe seemed quite taken with the scythe when I was hanging it,” Hannibal said in return, smile barely concealed now. </p>
<p>The two stared at one another for a few comfortable seconds, the space between them warm. </p>
<p>Will reached out and placed a hand softly along Hannibal’s jaw. His thumb caressed a line across his cheek, and his palm held the man’s face for just a moment. Then, swiftly and harshly-- though not violently-- he slid the hand back to grip the loose blonde-gray hair just above Hannibal’s nape, causing the other man’s head to tilt back with the force. Eyes staying locked on one another, the smile emerged fully now. </p>
<p>“No more reaper memorabilia in the dogs’ room,” Will whispered low and firm. Then, grip tightening a tad more, he added politely, “Please.”</p>
<p>Will released the hair in his grasp and did not wait for a response.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Apple Picking</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you to everyone reading these sometimes silly, sometimes sweet, always kind of ridiculous pieces. It's been a fun October project!</p><p>🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Will didn’t notice when the man in line behind them kept an excessively large distance between himself and the pair of men in front of him. Will only passingly noticed the man’s exaggerated sigh, which occurred less than a second after Hannibal removed his gloves and handed them to Will, a cheeky response to Will’s argument that waiting for the first frost to pick apples was unscientific at best.</p><p>Will instantly noticed, however, when the unmistakable sound of a shutter clicking emanated from the man’s cell phone. </p><p>Will whipped his head around to determine what the man was after. He and Hannibal were standing in line to pay for a basket of apples on a cold Sunday morning-- nothing interesting about that and certainly nothing damning. The self-righteous sneer on the man’s face and his empty brown eyes-- cold, dull eyes that begged a comparison to Hannibal’s lively, warm ones-- hinted at his problem with them. </p><p>Their existence, namely, seemed to be the issue.</p><p>Of all the myriad challenges Will had faced in his lifetime thus far, he would not have expected something so base as simple prejudice to thoroughly ignite his anger. Before he could turn fully to engage the man, however, a firm hand landed on his shoulder, and he heard a whispering voice pull him back from the brink with the utterance of his name. Still fuming, Will turned and shot his eyes sidelong to catch Hannibal’s; the other man, cool as ever, looked forward. Yet, for someone who knew Hannibal Lecter-- Will thought that total may only be one, possibly two if Hannibal included himself-- the stillness that settled over him was as good an indicator of feelings as Will’s glowering gaze and tense jaw. </p><p>It was both unnerving and fascinating to see the moment Hannibal chose someone’s fate; Will realized with a gleam of insight that the offenders likely never knew of how completely their transgressions were perceived until the moment of death.  </p><p>At the shack that served as a check-out stand, Hannibal smoothly made small talk with the two college-aged kids weighing apples and making change from a metal cash box. He asked about the growing season, the orchard’s owners, and if there were any tried and true recipes for this or that specific type of apple. Gracious, calm, personable-- not a hint of enmity. When they turned to leave, Hannibal did not appear to so much as cast a sideways glance at the man who had stood behind them, although Will knew better. </p><p>At the car, Hannibal took an inordinately long amount of time rearranging the produce and tucking it safely in the trunk. Will, meanwhile, got in the car and seatbelted himself securely in order to prevent throwing a punch as soon as the man from the line came into sight. He watched from the side mirror as the man arrived at a blinding white pick-up truck, a woman already sitting in the passenger seat and apparently playing on her phone. Maybe he was one half of a date gone wrong or a couple too mismatched to stand one another a moment longer than was necessary; regardless, Will didn’t blame her for refusing to be seen in public with him. </p><p>The vehicle identified, Hannibal finished arranging the trunk, climbed into the driver’s seat, and left before the man and his female companion. </p><p>For the rest of the day, Hannibal was pensive, sitting in his armchair in the study with a book opened on his lap but his eyes unseeing. Will could only guess what horrors-- and wonders-- were being constructed, torn apart, then rebuilt behind his gaze. Will left him alone to his thoughts and busied himself with as many fixer-upper projects as he could find, desperately needing to occupy his restless hands. </p><p>By dinner, Hannibal was more or less normal-- the term being relative-- and cooked with his usual skilled zeal. Will, showered and tired, chopped herbs from his place perched atop a stool by the island and listened while the other man rhapsodized about the farm where the night’s pork came from. The repetition of their evening ritual soothed and took the sting out of the morning’s unexpected jab. An ignorant, hateful man made a fool of himself-- that was all. </p><p>Falling asleep that night curled together, the dogs downstairs and the bed warm between them, all was erased from Will’s mind. </p><p>The next morning, however, he woke to an empty bed. </p><p>Well, mostly empty: Where Hannibal had been, there now was only an apple. Will picked it up, looked at it blearily, and felt a flood of adrenaline run his body hot and cold. He grabbed his glasses, checked the master bathroom and the study, and, finding no Hannibal, made his way downstairs two steps at a time. He reached the landing and felt his stomach drop at the complete lack of noise-- no breakfast being prepared, no coffee being poured, not even a chattering sermon to the dogs about not digging holes in the front yard. </p><p>Will continued his search fruitlessly until he reached the sunroom where, sitting comfortably in a chair with a laptop on his knees, Hannibal looked the picture of early morning ease. Air returned to Will’s lungs, and he closed his eyes for a moment to summon the strength not to strangle the other man. </p><p>Through a strained voice, Will said, “I thought doctors were supposed to treat high blood pressure, not cause it.”</p><p>Hannibal looked up, gave a serene, close-lipped smile, and set the laptop aside. Standing, he approached Will, brushed the wild curls away from his forehead with a deceptively gentle hand, and breathed deeply. </p><p>Will wanted to make a remark about Hannibal’s uncanny sense of smell being both creepy and inappropriate, but it felt less predatory this morning and more like the subtlest grab for comfort. Hannibal had gone by the time Will processed the exchange, returning upstairs to get ready for the day. Will sat, glanced at the local news site Hannibal had left up on the laptop screen, and began to wonder when the body of the man from the orchard would be found-- and what state it would be in. </p><p>Around noon, sitting at his desk in the BAU building, Will received his answer. He had brought the same news site up on his own screen as soon as he arrived at work and had been hitting refresh periodically throughout the morning. The first indication of what had occurred the night before while Will slept peacefully finally came in the form of an article with the bold headline “Mutilated body found in forest” and a nondescript photo of police blocking a crime scene. </p><p>The details in the article were too vague for Will to construct a clear mental image, though, so he begrudgingly pulled up TattleCrime and was immediately rewarded with a full-color photograph of the man from the previous day skewered on sharpened wooden poles. The man’s body was oddly flat and misshapen, and there was a clean line of stitches down the center of his chest to his bellybutton. Freddie’s accompanying article clarified the reason for his unusual form: Most of his internal organs had been removed and planted under the poles, each with an apple seed folded neatly into the tissue. All of his organs had now been recovered. </p><p>Only his tongue remained missing.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Corn Maze</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Only a snippet today, but I'm technically keeping up! 😁 😁</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Agritourism is vitally important in this region,” Hannibal claimed with a gravity Will couldn’t believe the man truly felt. </p>
<p>“If you like corn mazes, you can just say so,” Will replied airily as the pair continued their way along the winding path through towering stalks. </p>
<p>Hannibal didn’t respond, but Will knew the truth of the matter. It made sense, in a roundabout sort of way, when Will considered the situation. Hannibal enjoyed a challenge and embraced the more cryptic elements of life; Will could think of few better ways to merge the two in a societally approved manner than wandering blindly through a surreal labyrinth. </p>
<p>A nagging suspicion that could be attributed to little more than instinct suggested Hannibal’s seemingly arbitrary interest came from somewhere deeper in the recesses of his mind. Will considered this possibility as he watched Hannibal in front of him navigate through a particularly twisty corridor. He moved light on his feet and looked skyward more often than he did the path directly in front of him. </p>
<p>In many respects, it was a childlike way to work through a maze. With a warmth that twisted his stomach, Will saw the fragmented specks of dust remaining from Hannibal’s childhood vibrating on the floor of his mind palace. He conjured the image of a young boy, maybe eight or nine, with blonde hair and a face already showing signs of the angles it would one day wear with cold dignity. The boy read about the minotaur and dreamed of creeping through mazes in the shadows, his thoughts darker than his small body could contain. The boy worked on logic puzzles and played chess with his father-- a man with a blurred face Will couldn’t decode although he felt the man’s overwhelming presence as though he stood beside them in between the rows of corn. </p>
<p>These were only daydreams and not ones that needed to be shared. They felt true, and maybe that was enough. </p>
<p>Regardless of the origin of his delight, it was impossible to deny Hannibal was drawn to something in the act of becoming lost in a field and finding his way out again. Will didn’t tell him all he had to do was stick to the outer wall; he suspected Hannibal knew but chose to wander a bit instead of heading directly to the exit. </p>
<p>Will gladly followed, watching and imagining.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Dark Forest</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I don't usually write from Hannibal's POV, but I enjoyed tipping a toe into that perspective. Hope you all like another lump of fluff 🧡 🧡 🧡</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>From the window at the end of the upstairs hallway, Hannibal watched the treeline, the wind blowing inky, monstrous shapes in tangled masses. All of the lights in the house were off, and under the glow of the moon, he could just make out the two points where trails wound their way to the backyard. His eyes ached from the strain of gazing intently back and forth the two openings as he waited.</p><p>Hannibal had stood there for almost three hours now. </p><p>Will should have been back long ago. He should have been asleep in their bed, breathing soft exhales in a rare pose of molten peace. Likewise, Hannibal should have been asleep beside him, his body resting heavily with the knowledge that all he cared about in the world was secure for one more night. </p><p>One more night alive. One more night free. One more night alongside only the second person in his almost half a century of life to spark what might be called love.</p><p>How dangerous his life had become. </p><p>Hannibal knew Will was more than capable of handling himself. He was intelligent, resourceful, quick-thinking, perceptive, and, beyond all else, vibrating with untapped power. He knew more about the inner workings of law enforcement than Hannibal himself, and he was patient-- so very patient-- when he chose to be. There was no hurry when Will set his eyes on his next catch. </p><p>Still, the universe held immeasurable power and opportunity to foil even the most masterful of campaigns, so with Will’s plan clearly having gone awry in some way based on the rapidly disintegrating timeline, Hannibal couldn’t help but wonder about the other man. </p><p>A traffic stop.<br/>
An unexpected guest.<br/>
An anxious dog.<br/>
A nosy neighbor.<br/>
An unregistered gun in a nightstand drawer.</p><p>The number of ways one could die-- or worse, be captured-- was extraordinary. In the three hours since Will’s anticipated arrival home, Hannibal was increasingly aware of each and every one of them. </p><p>He wasn’t worried, of course. His life would persist with or without Will Graham. </p><p>However, he strongly preferred <i>with,</i> and as was the case with the curse of knowledge, he could not unknow that fact now.</p><p>The forest surrounding their country home seemed to roll in massive waves, the wind becoming harsher as the night wore on. The flowing back and forth of the trees summoned forth a memory of the ocean at night, rolling toward the shore where Hannibal stood then retreating in depthless rushes. Something in that vast pool of blackness called to Hannibal, pulled him toward the crashing waves and deceptive placidity beyond. He’d never walked into the sea, feeding himself to that magnificent beast, but he’d dreamed of it. He felt that same compulsion now as he watched the tree line and waited for a survivor to emerge. Watching and waiting, Hannibal’s mind whispered into the void that he would either be given what he sought, or he would plunge into the depths and retrieve it himself by sheer force. </p><p>As though hearing his ultimatum, movement caught his eye at last. </p><p>Hannibal blinked to clear his vision, saw the movement through the branches continue as the creature in the forest came closer to the treeline, and inched forward so that his nose was almost to the glass pane. A few more steps-- a few more breathless seconds-- and Will was bathed in light as he crossed the yard in quick strides, his eyes scanning over the back of the house as if searching. </p><p>He looked whole and undamaged. </p><p>Air rushing into Hannibal’s lungs after what seemed like an eternity underwater gave him the power to step back from the window, finally unfixing his gaze from the blur of the dark forest. Hannibal returned to the bedroom, flipped on the bedside lamp, and resumed his reading. His chest did not loosen, however, until he heard the back door open, the jangling of dog collars, and Will trying in vain to hush them so as not to wake the man presumably asleep upstairs. </p><p>Hannibal continued the charade of reading, too aware of the fact that the melody of his life had been deeply, irreparably altered.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Curse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>All fluff, all the time. </p>
<p>🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A bubble of air rose and popped, sending marinara splattering. Will quickly lowered the heat of the stovetop burner; then, looking down at his newly-adorned apron, he sighed under his breath. He was a decent cook-- becoming better at a break-neck pace thanks to his new living arrangements. Still, he never quite managed to escape meal preparation with an apron as pristine as Hannibal’s, and that fact increasingly pissed him off. </p>
<p>Detecting that tomato sauce was not the only thing simmering in the kitchen that evening, Hannibal looked up from the recipe card he was studying. He had prepared veal cutlets dozens of times, but he enjoyed reviewing his recipes, making notes and corrections as he personalized each dish to his specifications. </p>
<p>As Will added a splash of red wine to the pot in front of him, his face held a small frown, and Hannibal could almost hear the grumbling caught in the man’s throat. Asking if everything was alright or if he could assist in any way would not be well-received, so Hannibal looked back down at the notecard without speaking. </p>
<p>A few minutes later, the first notecard traded out for another, the harsh clanging of a knife against a cutting board made Hannibal’s stomach cringe. Will was chopping herbs as though they had offended him, his lineage, and every dog he had ever encountered. Will knew how to chop correctly, but as his tension increased, so did his culinary violence. The escalation in his manhandling of innocent ingredients and instruments suggested he was frustrated by more than the act of cooking. </p>
<p>Those poor knives.</p>
<p>“The basil is dead already, Will. You cannot kill it again,” Hannibal remarked pleasantly as his eyes scanned across the card marked in his own flowing script. </p>
<p>The noise stopped abruptly. </p>
<p>“Is there something you’d like to say?” Will snapped, eyes burning into Hannibal’s face until the older man finally looked up.</p>
<p>Hannibal maintained a perfectly neutral expression as he replied carefully, “If I’m able to lighten your burden, I’m glad to do so.”</p>
<p>Will huffed audibly at the diplomatic response and resumed butchering the herbs in front of him.</p>
<p>As he clanged the knife against the cutting board with each forceful cut, he sharply responded, “We mere mortals have bad days occasionally. There’s nothing to be done.”</p>
<p>Hannibal placed the card neatly back in place then observed Will’s movements from his safe distance. </p>
<p>“Perhaps talking about it would help. I’ve heard the practice is highly beneficial,” he answered with amusement but not teasing. </p>
<p>Will continued working roughly, but Hannibal could see his brow unfurl the tiniest amount.</p>
<p>Sounding as though he had been wronged by every molecule of the known universe, Will began pronouncing his litany of misfortunes: “Bad traffic. Late to work. Jack interrupted my class-- again. Spilled coffee all over my desk. Thirteen-year-old victim. Vending machine ate my dollar <i>and I do not need a lecture about preservatives</i>. Crime scene was at a construction site; tore my slacks on a nail. One of the workers threw up <i>on my shoe</i>.” </p>
<p>Will finished his chopping and looked at Hannibal again, adding with irritation, “Need I go on?”</p>
<p>The question was clearly rhetorical and meant to highlight how completely yet arbitrarily disastrous his day had been. Hannibal sat in silence as Will scraped the herbs into a glass bowl and pushed them aside. In spite of his tone, Will’s movements were less forceful. After a few minutes of quiet that slipped from uneasy to relatively comfortable as Will’s body relaxed, Hannibal spoke again, pushing his luck.</p>
<p>“Maybe you’re cursed.”</p>
<p>Will’s head snapped toward the voice, and his face twisted into a quick series of microexpressions-- confusion, disbelief, indignation, exhaustion-- before landing on exasperation. Will closed his eyes and took two deep breaths before looking at Hannibal squarely once again. </p>
<p>“That’s helpful,” Will said flatly. </p>
<p>“Curses can be undone,” Hannibal offered. </p>
<p>Will’s face swung back to disbelief as his eyes widened and a single, dry laugh escaped his throat. </p>
<p>“How silly of me,” Will sarcastically replied. </p>
<p>Hannibal rose from his seat and headed toward the planter of herbs mounted just below the kitchen window. He could feel Will tracking him across the room.</p>
<p>“What are you doing?” Will questioned suspiciously.</p>
<p>Voice even, Hannibal answered, “We could spare some sage. Could you retrieve the matches?”</p>
<p>Hannibal snipped two sprigs and walked toward the stovetop where Will still stood, his mouth leveled into a straight line but his eyes alight with renewed ire. Once Hannibal stood in front of Will, he held the sage out as an offering. Will pulled it roughly from Hannibal’s hands and turned back toward the cutting board. </p>
<p>“If you want sage in the sauce, you could just ask,” Will muttered as he plucked the leaves from the stalk.</p>
<p>Hannibal placed a purposefully light hand on Will’s back and asked softly, “Would my suggestion have been well received?”</p>
<p>In spite of himself, the corners of Will’s mouth twitched upward for just a second. </p>
<p>Hannibal returned to his collection of recipes cards.  He was satisfied when, a few seconds later, Will’s chopping resumed at a less frenzied pace.  </p>
<p>At least the sage would escape unbruised.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Boo!</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I'm pretty sure this goes beyond fluff into straight cotton candy.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hannibal could blame no one but himself for training Buster to harass him at every turn. </p>
<p>The dogs and Hannibal had a polite, generally friendly relationship. He would help in feeding them, didn’t balk when one would find its way into the study and lay near him, and seemed to genuinely like watching them run the yard in the evenings as he and Will observed their antics. Otherwise, though, he mostly ignored them, and they overlooked him in return. </p>
<p>Except Buster.</p>
<p>For reasons unknown, Buster bestowed on Hannibal his undying adoration from the first day they lived together under the same roof. The little dog followed the man around the house each evening and weekend. He waited at the door when he heard Hannibal’s car in the driveway and prostrated himself before the unimpressed man upon his entry into the home. He strong-armed his way past the larger dogs to ensure he was the closest to Hannibal’s armchair. He watched Hannibal move about daily life with unfettered, doe-eyed love. Yet, Hannibal ignored all of this, gracing the infatuated canine with an occasional pat on the head or verbal acknowledgement. </p>
<p>This precise lack of response from Hannibal was what led to Buster latching onto the first action that elicited any semblance of emotion from the man. Unfortunately, that emotion was best described as vaguely startled irritation. <br/>The first time the petite dog crept underneath the dining chair Hannibal was sitting in only to then spring out enthusiastically between his legs, he was rewarded with Hannibal’s head snapping downward as he leaned back and an annoyed, “Buster.” </p>
<p>It wasn’t much, but for Buster, it was better than apathy. </p>
<p>After that, the dog made a game of it. In the morning, Hannibal would tentatively lower his feet from the bed to the floor, waiting for a ball of fur to tackle his shins from under the bed. When he was cooking, Buster would disappear, only to burst from behind the center island the moment Hannibal turned his back. In the evenings, no chair was safe from Buster’s expert creeping. </p>
<p>Will watched this all unfold over several days. He advised Hannibal that if he only stopped reacting to the behavior and began giving Buster positive feedback for more desirable actions, the little dog would cease fire. Hannibal didn’t look up from the newspaper when he told Will he understood the mechanisms driving operant conditioning and did not require a refresher to handle a twenty-pound animal. One day not long after this conversation, Buster’s antics very nearly caused Hannibal to trip down the second flight of stairs, though the dignified man would never admit a walking fluffball charging him from the guest bedroom was almost his undoing. Hannibal had snapped-- as much as he ever snapped in daily life-- and a harsh “No, bad dog” was levied at Buster in a huff. Since that encounter, Buster had seldom moved from his place in front of the fire, and Hannibal had avoided the den entirely. </p>
<p>A moping dog with a broken heart and an edgy cannibal on the verge of building a spit in the backyard was too much for Will to continue finding amusement in the situation, so a few days after the doomed stairway encounter, he at last decided this had all gone on long enough. </p>
<p>Evening came, and the household settled into quiet. Hannibal read a journal in the living room while the dogs took a last run around the yard. Only Buster, still melancholy from his scolding, remained splayed on the rug in the den, looking up at Will with sad eyes as he remained otherwise motionless. Will crouched down and carefully gathered Buster into his arms, the dog perking slightly at the attention. He walked purposefully into the living room and stood before Hannibal, holding Buster as the little dog looked anywhere but at the man in the chair. </p>
<p>Hannibal glanced at Buster, then at Will. Will’s raised eyebrows expressed all that needed to be said: Suck it up and be nice to the dog. </p>
<p>Hannibal sighed, put the journal on the coffee table, collected the throw from the back of the chair to cover his lap-- heaven forbid he become covered in dog fur-- and looked up expectantly. Will gently placed Buster on the blanket-covered legs and waited. </p>
<p>“Good evening, Buster,” Hannibal greeted with affected pleasantness. </p>
<p>Hearing his name spoken so kindly, Buster’s head whipped around and buried itself squarely in Hannibal’s chest, the dog overcome at being reunited with his true love. Hannibal’s arms remained rigid against the chair, but he did not remove the canine making itself at home on his lap.</p>
<p>Wisely, Will waited until he was out of sight to let his face twist into a smirk.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Candles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peace had eluded Will for most of his life. </p>
<p>He’d grown up in too many places to have a home. Holidays were fraught with a single parent, no matter how much his father loved him. Police work left Will bleeding and just short of unhinged. Profiling nipped at his frayed nerves. </p>
<p>Will suspected he would’ve always felt uneasy, though, even if he’d grown up in a two-parent home with a white picket fence and had chosen a less traumatic career path. His skin felt too tight; his brain felt too fast; his body felt too tired. Those facts would have followed him wherever he went. </p>
<p>In his early thirties, he’d at last given up on peace and decided he would be perfectly fine with normalcy. He bought a house, rescued dogs, and built a life that more or less worked. It still was neither normal nor peaceful, though, and he had to squint hard to believe it was. But it was his, nonetheless.</p>
<p>A lifetime of learning the many good things in life that just weren’t <i>for</i> Will Graham made it difficult to trust when suddenly he found himself awash in them. This was the thought that kept Will’s eyes open and fixed on the ceiling, candlelight dancing and wavering there. </p>
<p>Rain and wind and thunder roared outside. The storm started in the early evening, and by nine, the power had gone out-- “Tree on a line, fixed by midnight” according to the operator who picked up when Will called the electric company. Since it was night already, the dogs didn’t notice when the final lamps shut off abruptly. They dozed off to an early sleep while Hannibal and Will quickly arranged candles in the downstairs living room, settling in to wait out the darkness. </p>
<p>At some point between that call and the present, sleepless moment Will found himself in, their sitting by the fire turned into a blanket stretched across the floor, which turned into clothing on the floor, which turned into bodies touching, whispering, laughing, and sighing. There was only warmth and comfort in the room lit by flames. Now, it was after 11:30, and Hannibal was curled next to Will, breathing evenly, while Will watched the light flicker across the ceiling. Without the hum of appliances, the only sounds were the storm outside, the crackling of the fireplace, and the soft inhales and exhales of the body next to him. Although his eyes were heavy, he desperately did not want to sleep the moment away. </p>
<p>How quickly he’d found his way here. </p>
<p>How unearned it felt despite a lifetime of going without. </p>
<p>How fragile it seemed in Will’s calloused hands. </p>
<p>How peaceful it was.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Jack o'lanterns</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first year in their new home, Hannibal carved 47 pumpkins; Will was thankful only eight of those ended up on their own front porch. </p><p>Hannibal had never carved a pumpkin until that first October he and Will spent together. Will, perhaps naively, underestimated how seriously Hannibal would take this new artistic endeavor. The first night of pumpkin carving-- what was meant to be the <i>only</i> night-- Will created a vaguely menacing scowl in a traditional, childlike style-- triangle nose and all. Hannibal, meanwhile, worked with a splayed anatomy textbook on the table next to him and an assortment of knives and scalpels. He produced a jarringly lifelike skull, which he considered with dissatisfied eyes. </p><p>The next day, Will found Hannibal on the back patio with three new pumpkins and a series of hand-drawn diagrams. He backed away without asking any questions, leaving the doctor to his work. By the end of the day, the skull had become only the first in a series of four pumpkins that depicted a skull evolving to a muscle-wrapped, fleshless face on the second pumpkin, then to a full, flayed human body on the third pumpkin, and finally to an interpretation of the Vitruvian Man on the fourth. These pumpkins were arranged on the large front porch, and Hannibal spent many long moments on the front walkway staring at them before snuffing out the candles, reentering the house, and heading straight to his study. At that moment, Will knew the pumpkins would be a problem. </p><p>The next day, a Sunday, Hannibal was up before dawn, toiling away on a new set of drawings. Four more pumpkins appeared, as if from thin air, and by nightfall, a new series of carvings were ready for display: A blank-faced angel with delicately carved wings, two hands reaching for one another moments before the spark of life was gifted, a mouth poised to bite into an apple, and an elaborately decorated crown. Hannibal rearranged the pumpkins so the first series was set in a row of four to the left of the stairs leading from the walkway to the porch; the new series was placed to the right. Once more, Hannibal spent many minutes observing his creations that night, but Will was relieved when Hannibal did not retreat to the study but joined him in the living room instead. </p><p>What Will believed to be the end, however, was only the beginning.</p><p>Two days after Hannibal finished his installation of overwrought gourds, Will came home to find Hannibal and the mailman engaged in an intense conversation. The mailman, a friendly man in his 70s, was taking photographs of the pumpkins with a flip phone that probably qualified as an antique. When he and Hannibal shook hands and separated, Will did not miss Hannibal slipping the man his business card. </p><p>Within three hours, the phone calls started. </p><p>First, it was Edna, one half of the couple that owned the only purveyor of gourmet olive oils and herbs within thirty minutes of their home. She offered to pay Hannibal if he’d be willing to carve a jack o’lantern for her to display in front of her store; he demurred payment, of course, but immediately set about designing an ornate olive tree pattern. </p><p>Next, a farmer whom Hannibal had purchased a quarter of beef from requested a pastoral scene as well as a pig silhouette to place outside of the barn where children went on field trips to pet the milder animals. Again, payment was proffered, and again, Hannibal politely refused but promised to deliver the art. </p><p>In short order, Hannibal became something of a local celebrity. He’d deliver his art-- always accompanied by a jar of roasted pumpkin seeds-- and the locals would ooh and ahh at the man in a three-piece suit with an exotic accent and skilled hands. This continued for the rest of the week until Hannibal had to begin courteously refusing new customers to ensure he was able to finish the projects he had already committed himself to completing. Three of those he had to decline requested to be put on a waiting list for the following October. </p><p>Will didn’t fail to notice the fine mood Hannibal seemed to be in during this time. </p><p>He also didn’t miss the fact that his own pumpkin had been silently moved to the back patio.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Bonfire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For most, the month of October was a four-and-a-half-week celebration of all things scary, cozy, and autumnal. For Beverly Katz, it was two weeks of cheesy horror movies preceded by two weeks of glorious celebration in honor of the birth of the most skilled crime scene investigator in the BAU-- at least that’s what Beverly liked to tell Jimmy and Brian from October 1st until the 31st. </p>
<p>The crowning jewel of the month was, naturally, her birthday party. On the third Saturday in October, Beverly Katz unfailingly hosted a themed party that drew even the most reclusive of her colleagues out of hiding, even if only due to her incredible knack for peer pressure. The parties had evolved over the years, of course. The drunken extravaganzas of her early- to mid-twenties included such thought-provoking themes as “Hail Caesar!,” where scandalous togas and $4 bottles of red wine flowed freely, and “Elvis in Hawaii,” which resulted in a very intoxicated, very sequined Jimmy Price sleeping in her neighbor’s shed. Her late twenties and early thirties saw the parties toned down a notch or two as people became less inclined to stay up until 3 AM and simultaneously more likely to experience a multi-day hangover if they tried. Her prior three birthdays, therefore, were themed much more generally: “Doppelgangers,” ”Spooks and Spirits,” and the surprisingly popular “Pumpkins.” </p>
<p>Continuing in the mantra of <i>keep it simple</i> that had served her well as of late, Beverly’s 33rd birthday was simply “Fire.” </p>
<p>The setting? A lakeside bonfire.</p>
<p>The attire? Red, no further direction needed.</p>
<p>Food and drink? S’mores, hotdogs roasted on a stick, hot apple cider, and a round of flaming shots for anyone choosing to relive their more misguided college years. </p>
<p>Mostly, Beverly looked forward to bundling up by a crackling fire with her good friends-- only after strong-arming them into taking a much-deserved break from their consuming work, of course. In that spirit, Beverly saw to it personally that nobody refused the party outright-- even Jack. The final holdout, unsurprisingly, was Will Graham. </p>
<p>Beverly began working on the guests politely in mid-September by emailing everyone an invitation that was simple but clear. Then, she sent a follow-up email to anyone who had failed to RSVP after a week. The few stragglers who made it to October 1st without committing themselves were then paid a personal visit by Beverly Katz and stared down until they clicked “Accept.” All of the stragglers, that is, except Will, whose reaction to the aggressive gesture of friendship was sarcasm, then snapping, and, finally, avoidance. </p>
<p>By the second weekend in October-- with only a single week left before her birthday-- Beverly was driven to drastic measures. She didn’t want to play dirty, but her friend had driven her to it: She called his boyfriend. </p>
<p>She wasn’t proud of stooping to such depths, but when she received a notification informing her that Will Graham had accepted her digital invitation mere hours after her appeal to Dr. Lecter, she wholeheartedly felt the ends justified the means. Seeing Will standing by the fire, clad in a casual red pullover and jeans, and holding a mug of cider affirmed her beliefs. Beverly watched him from across the expansive fire and was glad to see him crack a smile from time to time, generally when nobody was watching. She was equally glad to see Dr. Lecter by his side, all too happy to do the bulk of the socializing for them both. They were an odd couple, in some ways, but not at all in others. Their lifestyles seemed incompatible, and Beverly was aware that Dr. Lecter excelled at the whole “charming” thing even if she wasn’t particularly swayed by it; still, they were both independent, intelligent, and fiercely private. Most importantly, Will Graham looked sane and healthy, and Beverly getting to see his face break into a grin from time to time didn’t hurt either. </p>
<p>The sound of Brian plopping down next to her on the makeshift bench-- nothing more than boards and cinder blocks-- pulled her attention away. Zeller gave her a suspicious look, which she met with impatiently raised eyebrows. </p>
<p>“Why are you staring at Graham?” he asked with the slightest slur. It appeared poor Jimmy was DDing again.</p>
<p>“People watching,” Beverly responded with a sly smile.</p>
<p>“Got a crush, Bev?” Zeller questioned with a wink he didn’t quite pull off. He only called her Bev when he was at least three drinks deep. </p>
<p>“No time for love triangles,” she answered lightly, taking the cup from Brian’s side while he was distracted by trying to suss out exactly what had Beverly so engaged. An amused smile on her face, she added, “I think I could take Dr. Lecter in a bar fight, though.”</p>
<p>Zeller cocked his head to the side, confusion slowly reaching his glassy eyes. </p>
<p>“Wait, what?”</p>
<p>Beverly sighed and replied exasperatedly, “I’m not into Will, Brian. Try to keep up with the jokes.”</p>
<p>Zeller shook his head, as though he could disperse the cloudiness of his thoughts with the physical action. </p>
<p>“Yes, Beverly, I know that,” he snippily responded, clearly feeling a tad more sober based on his use of her full name. “I meant, why would you fight Dr. Lecter for him? Does <i>he</i> have a thing for Graham?”</p>
<p>Beverly slowly blinked her wide, brown eyes as she tried to comprehend the man’s obliviousness and marveled at how he could possibly investigate anything more complex than a stolen bicycle. She stared at him for many seconds before he became uncomfortable enough to speak again.</p>
<p>“You don’t have to be rude,” Brian commented. “How am I supposed to know who’s weird enough to want to date <i>Will Graham</i>?”</p>
<p>“They’ve dated for a year!” Beverly whispered loudly, eyes somehow widening further at the sheer ignorance she was facing. For good measure, she added, “They live together!”</p>
<p>“Okay, I should’ve noticed that,” Brian conceded in the face of the overwhelming evidence against him. He knew when he was beat.</p>
<p>A hundred conversations in the lab with Price, Zeller, and Will about how weekends were spent or everyone’s upcoming plans flashed through Beverly’s mind. Incredulous still, she pushed further, “Who do you think Will is talking about when he says ‘we’? <i>We</i> went to the theater; <i>we</i> repainted the bathrooms; <i>we’re</i> going on vacation?”</p>
<p>Brian mumbled something under his breath. </p>
<p>“Excuse me?” Beverly prompted harshly. </p>
<p>“I said I thought it was his dogs,” Zeller whispered, face reddening at last. </p>
<p>Beverly shook her head in disgust. </p>
<p>“You’re fired,” she deadpanned.</p>
<p>“You can’t fire me-- you’re not my boss,” Zeller quickly responded.</p>
<p>Beverly refused to look at him as she said with a note of finality, “Just did.”</p>
<p>She waited until Brian had wandered away before letting herself smile again. She couldn’t wait to tell Jimmy and Jack about their team member’s massive oversight.</p>
<p>She was even more eager to remind Brian daily that she was demonstrably the best crime scene investigator in the BAU.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Full Moon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The moon glowed in the sky, washing the two men and their home in silvery white light. The house was dark behind Will and Hannibal as they huddled together shoulder-to-shoulder on the oversized chaise lounge, a heavy blanket trapping their warmth. Only Max stayed outside with the pair; the other dogs had charged through the backdoor at the first chance they were given and were now dozing by the fireplace. In spite of the cold air, Hannibal and Will found themselves perfectly content to pull the blankets tighter, inch closer together, and stare up at the moon in the quiet night. </p><p>As time slipped away, Will began to feel Hannibal’s eyes settling on his profile more and more frequently. Silence was sometimes too great a temptation for a mind as teeming with ideas as Dr. Lecter’s, so the younger man waited patiently and tried to guess what Hannibal would be moved to say. </p><p>Would it be a gem of philosophy? </p><p>An allusion to a piece of classical literature? </p><p>A memory wrapped in coded language?</p><p>“The Jataka tales are a series of stories meant to show the 34 previous lives of the Supreme Buddha,” Hannibal began in lilting tones. “One of the most fascinating is about the moon.”</p><p>Ah, folk tales with a side of religion. Will chided himself for not predicting it. </p><p>Hannibal took Will’s silence and the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth as encouragement to continue. </p><p>Eyes heavenward again, Hannibal shared the story, “In that tale, he was reborn as a rabbit. One day, the god of all gods disguised himself as a starved beggar. The rabbit had nothing to offer the beggar, so he built a fire and cast himself into it to feed the stranger. The god saved him and preserved his image as a painting on the moon.”</p><p>Will cocked his head to the side and squinted. He didn’t see the rabbit whatsoever.</p><p>“What do you think the lesson of the tale is, Will?” Hannibal asked, regarding Will again with dark eyes. </p><p>Without hesitation, Will answered, “Don’t trust the gods.”</p><p>It wasn’t at all the answer expected, which meant it was one that particularly delighted Hannibal; his mouth stretched in a half-smile and he unconsciously dipped his head forward a bit more as a single laugh escaped his chest. </p><p>Several more minutes passed in comfortable silence. This time, Will broke it first,</p><p>“Now that I think about it, I have a story about the moon, as well,” he said in a conversational tone, only somewhat meant to tease. </p><p>“Enthrall me,” Hannibal replied with a smile dancing across his eyes. </p><p>“The October moon was named the Hunter’s Moon because it gave enough light for men to hunt by it-- a last rush before winter,” Will began explaining, shifting his eyes briefly to catch Hannibal watching him intently before continuing. “But according to some who live along the Appalachians, there’s one animal you should never track on the Hunter’s Moon: a bear.” </p><p>Will punctuated the last word by drawing it out dramatically and raising his eyebrows as though impressed by the very notion of such an animal. The man next to him retained his pleasant, fond expression. </p><p>“Supposedly, if you follow a bear on the night of the Hunter’s Moon, it will lead you deeper and deeper into the forest-- it’ll run, then wait; run, then wait. Eventually, it’ll vanish, and you’ll be lost for good. Some versions of the story suggest it was never a bear at all that you were hunting,” Will finished in the tone of a camp counselor sharing a spooky story around a fire. Then, in a mockingly serious voice, he questioned, “What do you think the lesson of the story is, Dr. Lecter?”</p><p>Hannibal gave a thoughtful hum, waited a few moments in thought, then responded, “Know thy enemy.”</p><p>Will gave a wry laugh and looked at Hannibal fully as he asked, “The hunter or the bear?”</p><p>“Both, and to the victor go the spoils.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Bones</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Will shifted uncomfortably on the squeaky patent leather of his chair in the small waiting room. Magazine racks displayed glossy photos of labradors and German shepherds posed athletically, shih tzus preening with tiny bows in their silky fur, and droopy-faced pugs licking their chops at a canine take on a Thanksgiving feast. In reality, Dr. Banneker’s office held a frail old woman with a balding cat across the square of seats from Will and Buster. Will had already snapped his fingers at Buster twice for trying to stare down the spotty cat, although the little dog was too smart to attempt anything more than intimidation. Will was more than satisfied when a Great Dane trotted through the front door and sent Buster scurrying between Will’s legs, his eyes suddenly widening in puppy-like terror. Served him right, Will thought, especially after all of the trouble he was causing. Going to the vet for anything other than shots felt like a personal failure to Will Graham. Waiting for Dr. Banneker, he had the feeling of being summoned into the principal’s office for an unknown offense.  </p>
<p>A short, stocky woman in scrubs with a kind, round face and blonde hair teased sky-high opened the door and called, “Buster Graham?”</p>
<p>Will shot a look at the terrier who was doing his best impression of a statue as he stared into the wall, avoiding even the smallest of movements lest he somehow drew the attention of the dog the size of a pony. For his part, the Great Dane was half-asleep now with his head on his owner’s knee, oblivious to his perceived threat. </p>
<p>Will stood and sighed. Buster was such a drama queen-- no wonder he had taken to Hannibal so quickly.</p>
<p>They followed the woman, Annette her name tag read, to a small, sterile room. Buster was placed on the metal exam table, and Will stood idly by, daring him to attempt an escape. Annette gave the dog a brief once-over, taking his temperature and writing down notes on her chart.</p>
<p>“Dr. Banneker will be right with you, Buster,” she sweetly said with a pat on his head. Buster leaned into it, as though she might take mercy on him if he repented now. </p>
<p>Will leaned against the wall near the table while Buster laid down sullenly on the table, resigned to his fate but refusing to make eye contact with his owner now that he was aware of Will’s betrayal. After a few minutes of the man and the dog pointedly ignoring one another, the door opened, and Dr. Banneker, an older woman with a sharp gray bob, trendy black-framed glasses, and a perpetual half-smile, entered the room with Buster’s chart in her hand. </p>
<p>“Good morning, Mr. Graham. Good morning, Buster,” she greeted them both.</p>
<p>“Morning, Dr. Banneker,” Will said guiltily, still feeling like the worst pet parent on the face of the planet. </p>
<p>Banneker scanned the chart, speaking aloud, “Buster is up-to-date on his shots, still on heartworm prevention, he’s been neutered, no sign of physical injury or abnormal vitals...what brings you two here today?”</p>
<p>Buster had turned his most charming doe-eyed expression to Dr. Banneker, a final plea for salvation. Will, meanwhile, ran an embarrassed hand over his face and took a deep inhale. Dr. Banneker quirked her head curiously, the smile still on her face.</p>
<p>“Well, I didn’t want to tell the secretary because it’s sort of...odd,” Will started weakly. “Buster has a new...hobby? No, habit, I guess, that I’m worried about. Not worried, just confused maybe?” </p>
<p>Will was rambling. He knew it, the doctor knew it, and judging by how Buster was inching ever closer to the doctor and distancing himself from his actual owner, it seemed Buster knew it as well. </p>
<p>The FBI agent tried again, “Buster’s always been a lapdog. Honestly, he’ll barely chase a tennis ball. But a few weeks ago, he started...killing things. At least, I think he’s killing them-- I don’t see it, I just find the heads.”</p>
<p>To her credit, Dr. Banneker didn’t so much as flinch. Will ran a hand through his hair and looked at the floor as he continued his explanation.</p>
<p>“He’s bringing the heads of field mice to our back door. The first time it happened, I thought he found a dead one and, y’know, dogs do weird things. There have been more heads since then, though. A lot more,” Will awkwardly described. “Like one a day.”</p>
<p>Dr. Banneker’s eyes shifted to the dog on the table, then back to Will. She straightened her head, her bob framing her face perfectly and still grinning pleasantly. </p>
<p>“Well, Mr. Graham, Buster <i>is</i> a terrier. This behavior seems completely normal-- natural, even. He’s discovered his prey drive. Perhaps it’s a bit later in life than we would expect, but it’s nothing to worry about,” Dr. Banneker soothed, stroking Buster’s nape while attempting to do the same to Will through her calm tone.  </p>
<p>Will’s shoulders sagged in relief. He knew this logically, but a tiny part of him had become convinced he and Hannibal had someone turned Buster into the canine version of the Chesapeake Ripper through criminal osmosis. </p>
<p>Dr. Banneker continued before Will’s face could turn red in embarrassment at having ever thought such a thing, “Just be extra careful Buster gets his shots on time and be sure to call me if he exhibits any signs of illness. Mice can carry nasty parasites. You might walk him only on a leash if this escalates.”</p>
<p>Will nodded, almost relieved he was finally getting some semblance of a scolding, although it was far weaker than the one he anticipated. </p>
<p>“Do you have any other concerns, Mr. Graham?” Dr. Banneker asked kindly.</p>
<p>Will shook his head, then thought better of it and paused. He opened his mouth, but no words came out immediately. He couldn’t think of a delicate way to phrase his follow-up question. </p>
<p>“Uh,” he started intelligently, “what about the skulls?”</p>
<p>The smile finally slipped from Dr. Banneker’s face for just a few seconds before she could recover. </p>
<p>“The skulls?” she asked, eyes wider than before. With a furrowed brow, she asked, “Is he eating them, Mr. Graham?”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Will said with a wave of his hand. “He’s collecting them.”</p>
<p>Dr. Banneker blinked her wide eyes slowly. </p>
<p>“I mean, he has a hole where he keeps all of them. He’ll bring us the heads but doesn’t leave them. When he knows we’ve seen them, he’ll take them to the hole,” Will detailed the situation with as much nonchalance as he could muster at this point in the conversation.</p>
<p>Dr. Banneker eyed Buster in a way that made Will momentarily wonder if there was an animal version of the BSHCI she was considering sending his dog to. Will moved closer possessively at the thought. </p>
<p>“I believe this is still within the realm of normal canine behavior,” Dr. Banneker began with marginally less warmth than before. “Dogs can exhibit hoarding tendencies when it comes to food or prey without there being any underlying conditions.”</p>
<p>Will had the distinct feeling she was remembering lines from a textbook, not speaking from experience. They stood in silence for many seconds until Dr. Banneker’s normal smile returned, her composure visibly regained. </p>
<p>“Dogs are like people, Mr. Graham,”  she said sweetly, “they do strange things sometimes. As long as Buster is healthy and is not demonstrating worrisome behaviors toward humans or other pets, it’s probably not worth worrying about.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, Dr. Banneker,” Will mumbled, wanting the encounter to end. </p>
<p>The older woman nodded and called out, “The secretary will check you out. Have a good afternoon!” as she disappeared through the back entry door. </p>
<p>At home that evening, Will found himself watching the dogs run through the backyard from the large window above the kitchen sink. Buster had torn away from the group and headed toward the trees, undoubtedly looking for another mouse to murder. Hannibal entered the kitchen, ran a warm hand down Will’s spine in greeting, then wandered through the dining room and to the back patio, where he began reading the newspaper in one of the lounge chairs. Will continued watching the peaceful scene, accepting Buster might just be a strange dog that had pretended to be normal all of their years together, which would be another great joke of the universe. </p>
<p>A few minutes later, Buster tore out of the trees, his prize gripped between his teeth. Like before, he made a beeline toward the back door to present his kill. However, Will lingered at the sink instead of rushing to the door as he normally did. There apparently was no need to panic, after all. </p>
<p>Buster stopped in his tracks at Hannibal’s chair, tail wagging maniacally. Will had never seen this part of the evening’s events; he was usually either outside already or rushing to the door to try to get Buster to drop the severed head. Will observed curiously as Buster waited patiently for Hannibal to fold the newspaper and put it down on his lap. </p>
<p>Buster dropped the head and looked up expectantly. </p>
<p>Hannibal looked at the head, then at Buster. </p>
<p>“Good dog,” Hannibal’s lips seemed to be saying. Will scoffed and crossed his arms. </p>
<p>Then, Hannibal reached in his pocket, and a moment later, Will watched as the man tossed Buster a small treat. Buster chewed, swallowed, then carried the mouse head off to his death pit. </p>
<p>Seconds later, Will Graham was leaning halfway out the opened kitchen window sending a string of expletives flying across the backyard.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Falling Leaves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Finding a leaf on Hannibal’s desk in his new office was puzzling, to say the least. It looked normal enough to Will-- roughly palm-sized, rust-colored, and just beginning to dry and gnarl at the edges. Will spent more than a few minutes staring at it while he waited for Hannibal to finish taking a call. He was aware Hannibal was watching him observe the leaf, but the man’s face gave no hint as to its significance. </p>
<p>When the call ended, Will twirled the leaf between his fingers by its stem and raised his eyebrows in question. However, Hannibal merely plucked the leaf gently from Will’s fingers before placing a soft kiss on the still-raised hand. Will rolled his eyes and figured Hannibal could keep this mystery if he wanted. It was relatively benign on the Lecter scale. </p>
<p>Still, Will found himself considering the leaf from time to time over the following days, wondering at its purpose. In all fairness, it could be anything from a leaf Hannibal found some particular beauty in to a leaf laden with evidence Hannibal intended to plant somewhere at a Ripper scene. There was no telling what it meant, and that was precisely what slowly nagged at the back of Will’s mind as the days went on. Moreover, each time Will went to Hannibal’s office-- which was actually a Victorian home Hannibal purchased solely for this purpose-- the leaf remained on the desk, gradually curling in on itself and becoming faded. Each time Will saw it, he picked it up, studied it, and came to no new conclusions; likewise, each time Will examined it, Hannibal gave a Mona Lisa smile, took it from his fingers, and left a press of his lips in its place. Unfailingly, Will would roll his eyes in response, face oscillating between suspicion and amusement. </p>
<p>A week and a half after the leaf first appeared, Will was wandering Hannibal’s office as he so often did when his lectures finished for the day; the other man was explaining in excruciating detail the precise way he wanted the new wainscotting positioned in the narrow waiting area to a construction worker who looked appropriately alarmed. Will half-listened to the instructions with a smirk as he plopped down at Hannibal’s desk, leaning back in the plush leather chair. The leaf was moved today, no longer placed perfectly within the right angle of the upper-right-hand corner of Hannibal’s desk. Instead it was next to a notebook that was closed but placed directly in front of the chair. It wasn’t patient notes, so Will didn’t feel conflicted about rifling through it. In all honesty, he probably wouldn’t have hesitated much even if it was patient notes, if only to rile Hannibal up a bit. </p>
<p>He smiled to himself as he saw Hannibal’s drawings appear across the pages. The first part of the notebook was littered with scenes from Paris and Florence, two of Hannibal’s great loves. Interspersed were replications of great works of art, sometimes with the faces changed to those of people Hannibal knew personally. Midway through the notebook, Will blushed and sighed exasperatedly as he saw his own visage on a rather scantily clad Greek soldier-- they would have words about that one. The final third of the almost-full notebook was, surprisingly, populated by more domestic images: Will’s home in Wolf Trap, Hannibal’s kitchen in Baltimore, Winston, their new home, the dogs splayed around the den fireplace, their backyard lined with trees, and so very many drawings of Will himself. </p>
<p>If Will didn’t know Hannibal better, it would be more than a little creepy to find dozens of pictures of Will in all scenes from their life together-- his hair covering his eyes as he leaned his head over a book, gaze focused as he cooked, body in full motion as he ran alongside Max, eyelashes against his cheeks as he slept, and on and on. The one that caught his attention, though, was of him looking upward and smiling; it was only a sketch of him from the shoulders up, his flannel coat barely visible, but Will remembered that moment: They were at the base of a stately old oak tree, and Will had spied a possum hidden among the branches. Hannibal scowled at its narrow face and beady eyes, clearly displeased by nature’s choice in aesthetics. Will laughed at him openly and talked about how useful they were and how a family had lived in the trees by his farmhouse for many years. However, Will only vaguely remembered the leaf that had fallen on the shoulder of his jacket, but there it was in the sketch, its existence preserved in charcoal. On the page across from the study of Will looking upward, there was a remarkably lifelike reproduction of the leaf as it had been that day, still fresh and plump. Circling this center image was a series of rough sketches as the leaf decayed, a new one for each day that showed its furling and discoloration. The most recent image perfectly matched the actual leaf lying on Hannibal’s desk.</p>
<p>Hannibal reentered the room with swift steps, face still stern in concentration from his conversation with the man who was left to make sense of Dr. Lecter’s exacting instructions. His expression softened when he saw what Will was looking at, though, and he slowed as he came to stand behind the chair Will was seated in. He placed a hand on each shoulder, firm but never unduly rough, and rubbed his fingertips toward Will’s collarbone. </p>
<p>Will looked upward, eyes bright with teasing yet to be unleashed.</p>
<p>“You’re pretty romantic for a serial killer,” Will said in a whisper, watching Hannibal’s eyes flash in surprise for the briefest of moments. “I can teach you how to press leaves. Might save you some time-- increase productivity.”</p>
<p>The slightest glint of teeth peeked through as Hannibal replied gently, “I prefer my methods.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Blood Red Setting Sun</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Will Graham didn’t believe in portents or omens. He was a man of scientific intuition, if he had to describe how his brain processed the world without going into diagnoses and pathologies. Bad feelings and a sense of impending doom were more likely to be caused by a dozen tiny details one’s brain subconsciously noticed than by divination. Will knew all of this-- believed it-- but still felt inexplicably uneasy all day. His lectures went quickly and smoothly; traffic was light; he was not summoned to the scene of any murders. It was, objectively, a good day.</p>
<p>Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was looming just beyond sight. Will did all that he could to mitigate disaster: He checked his blindspot twice before changing lanes; he called Hannibal midday just to be sure everything was okay in the psychiatrist’s world; he brought his gun with him on his walk in the woods with the dogs even though he never, ever had before. As the sun set that evening, the sky blazing gold and bronze as the blood-red orb sunk toward the trees, Will felt as though he might vomit. His stomach clenched anxiously and twisted in sickening knots. When Hannibal came home, Will almost jumped out of his skin, too lost in his thoughts to notice the man until he was right beside him. </p>
<p>It was, admittedly, a small relief to have him home-- Will felt better about his ability to protect them and their life together with both under the same roof. Hannibal was entertained by Will’s uncharacteristic skittishness at first, but it soon shifted to concern as he watched Will pace the hallway and shatter a glass when the younger man tried to get water. Thus, Will didn’t grumble too much when Hannibal banned Will from the kitchen and strongly suggested he sit by the fire with some Scotch and a fisherman’s magazine that the older man normally regarded with unbridled disdain. Hannibal was probably most concerned when Will actually took his suggestion and settled in with Winston at his feet. </p>
<p>Just before the sun fully disappeared, Will’s amorphous sense of dread became manifest as the doorbell rang. Will started to stand, but he heard Hannibal call out “Stay put” as his heavy footfalls crossed the house. Will strained to hear but could only make out a male voice. </p>
<p>Seconds passed, then minutes, and Will did not hear the door close. To the contrary, he heard Hannibal’s voice become firmer and a bit louder. Will couldn’t bear not knowing what was happening, instructions be damned. He walked cautiously toward the entryway, staying just out of sight. Peeking around the corner, he saw a short, stout man outlined in flaming red as the sun’s last rays glowed around him. Will walked fully into the entryway, not perceiving any physical threat, and as his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the man had dark hair, a shiny face, and bugged-out eyes focused intensely on Hannibal; his sweater vest and khakis did much to assuage Will’s concerns about any potential capacity for violence. </p>
<p>He looked almost familiar, like a store clerk who somehow appears as a character in a dream through a synaptic glitch. Will listened to the man’s harried words as he cautiously approached the scene in the doorway.</p>
<p>“But I’m <i>not</i> your patient anymore!” the man pleaded.</p>
<p>Will saw Hannibal’s shoulders heave a sigh as his hand came to his hip. He was becoming tired of the man’s presence, which did not bode well for anyone involved. </p>
<p>“Franklyn, I cannot be clearer. I no longer reside in Baltimore; my practice is here now. I gave you a referral to a very good psychiatrist,” Hannibal explained for what Will guessed was the third or fourth time based on the clipped tone. </p>
<p>“I’m here as a <i>friend</i>, Dr. Lecter! Just think of me as your buddy Franklyn,” the increasingly anxious man, Franklyn it seemed, suggested with unwarranted optimism. </p>
<p>All at once, Will wondered if the universe had, indeed, been warning Will of this very moment all day-- the moment when he’d have to keep Hannibal from killing what seemed to be an ardent, though delusional, admirer.  <i>Your buddy Franklyn</i>, indeed.</p>
<p>That thought in mind, Will guffawed a single, crazed laugh, part relief and part genuine amusement at Hannibal’s predicament. The noise drew the attention of both men at the door. Hannibal looked as near to flustered as Will had ever seen him while Franklyn appeared wounded. </p>
<p>“I saw him! In your office!” Franklyn shouted, his finger jabbing the air accusingly toward Will. “He’s here!”</p>
<p>Will could feel his eyes narrow as he responded, “I live here...”</p>
<p>If Franklyn was wounded before, he looked positively dumbstruck now, his brain failing to process the situation that confronted him.</p>
<p>“This is Dr. Lecter’s house,” Franklyn said dumbly, some of his vehemence dissipating.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Will nodded slowly, tone casual. “And mine. We live here. Together.”</p>
<p>He tried to make the math as simple for Franklyn as possible, but the man still seemed utterly lost. He looked wildly between the men.</p>
<p>“Doctor, if you needed a roommate--”</p>
<p>Will cut Franklyn off with another abrupt bark of a laugh. Will was almost parallel with Hannibal now, and he could see the doctor’s jaw work as he fixed a withering glare at the spastic man in the doorway. Will could hear Hannibal’s sharp intake of breath as he collected himself to speak again. </p>
<p>“Franklyn, I need not explain how inappropriate this visit of yours is. We are not friends. We will not become friends. Our relationship is bound by ethics even now,” Hannibal reasoned in a cool, controlled voice. Then, in a vaguely offended tone that Hannibal had no right to affect, he added, “I do not live with patients.”</p>
<p>Franklyn frowned but did not leave the doorway. He was tenacious, at least. </p>
<p>“Dr. Lecter, we have so much in common. Whatever you’re paying, imagine if it was split three ways instead of--”</p>
<p>When Will broke Franklyn off this time, his voice was forceful and flat, “We’re sleeping together.”</p>
<p>Hannibal’s head whipped toward Will. When he glanced back at Franklyn, the man looked near tears. </p>
<p>“I have a roast to attend to. You seem capable of seeing Mr. Froideveaux out, Will,” Hannibal said to a point somewhere between them before turning on his heel and making his way toward the kitchen with tense, clicking steps. </p>
<p>Will stared at Franklyn. Franklyn stared at Will. </p>
<p>The light changed as the sun finished its plunge below the horizon and cast the house in shadow.</p>
<p>In the kitchen, Hannibal listened as closely as he could over the sounds of dinner preparations. After a few minutes, he heard the front door close, but he did not hear the sound of Will’s steps through the house. Likewise, he did not hear the sound of a car leaving their driveway. Thirty-five more minutes passed without development. The roast was safely in the oven and the prep area had been cleaned; more importantly, Hannibal’s curiosity was at a high. Walking with deliberately light footsteps, he crept into the entryway. The door was closed, but the sound of voices carried from outside. He got as close as he could, avoiding creaky floorboards, and loitered by the door. Though muffled, Hannibal could make out the words between the men.</p>
<p>“It’s always been like this, you know,” Franklyn said between sobs. “Even in kindergarten. Mikey Washburn and I were the only two in class whose favorite color was brown, but he didn’t even take the friendship bracelet I made him…”</p>
<p>The words dissolved into sniffles. A few seconds of silence later, Will’s voice responded. </p>
<p>“Hey, Franklyn. That’s the past. Think about the future.”</p>
<p>For Will, the soft words were the verbal form of a hug. </p>
<p>“It doesn’t matter,” Franklyn whined. </p>
<p>“Of course it does,” Will answered. “You’re a decent guy. In your...prime…” Hannibal could sense Will floundering. “You’ve got a lot to offer, Franklyn.”</p>
<p>“I keep offering but nobody’s taking!” Franklyn exclaimed sadly. </p>
<p>Hannibal grinned at the astute assessment of his current situation.</p>
<p>“Somebody will. There are lots of fish in the sea. You’ll...hook that fish someday,” Will lamely offered. “And when you do, you’re gonna be so glad nobody else worked out...as a friend…”</p>
<p>Seconds passed in silence.</p>
<p>Franklyn finally spoke again in a clearer voice, “Maybe you’re right. I really appreciate this, Will.”</p>
<p>“No problem. Glad to help,” Will muttered. </p>
<p>A few more seconds went by without speaking.</p>
<p>Suddenly, Will said, “Oh, I hear Hannibal calling-- dinner must be ready.”</p>
<p>Hannibal smiled to himself as he heard the sounds of men standing and moving on the porch. </p>
<p>Franklyn protested, “I didn’t hear any--”</p>
<p>“Good to meet you, Franklyn, and best of luck!”</p>
<p>“You, too, Will! Thanks again for--”</p>
<p>Will retreated through the door, closed it, and locked it quickly before Franklyn had a chance to stop him. He leaned against the door, eyes closed and head tilted back as he exhaled deeply. When he reopened his eyes and saw Hannibal standing there, he was caught between irritation at the turn of events and a sense of calm he had been missing all day.</p>
<p>“Excellent therapy, Will,” Hannibal commented wryly. </p>
<p>Will’s eyes were slits as he opened his mouth to make a sly remark back. The words were caught in his throat, however, as the doctor descended on him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Candy Corn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Live a little,” Zeller said as he slung back a palmful of candy corn. </p>
<p>“Why would I waste precious life on sugar wax?” Beverly asked with unconcealed disgust as she continued her work on the late Mr. Milgraves. </p>
<p>“Ooh, candy corn!” Price exclaimed as he turned the corner into the autopsy space. Zeller tossed one kernel in the air and Price leaned forward to catch it smoothly. </p>
<p>From his position perched on a stool, Will glanced at Beverly, and the two exchanged an amused look. </p>
<p>“Graham?” Zeller offered, hand outstretched. </p>
<p>Will shook his head and wrinkled his nose. </p>
<p>“Vile,” he murmured as he flipped through the file in his hands. He ignored how much of a <i>Hannibal</i> word that was. </p>
<p>“Someone’s fancy now,” Price snarked as he reached into the bag in Zeller’s hands. </p>
<p>Beverly grinned at that as she peeled back Milgraves’ scalp. </p>
<p>“Hardly,” Will scoffed without looking up from the pages. </p>
<p>“You’re a little fancy now, Will,” she said teasingly. </p>
<p>Will frowned as his eyes darted to his friend. </p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>Beverly glanced up, caught the humorless expression, and shook her head. </p>
<p>“Forget I said anything.”</p>
<p>Will snapped the file closed in his hands and let his eyes roam among the three analysts. </p>
<p>“Did I miss something?” he asked sharply. </p>
<p>Beverly sighed, putting down her tweezers. </p>
<p>“We’re just giving you a hard time, Will,” she replied earnestly.</p>
<p>“It’s the price you pay for spending Christmas in Rome,” Zeller answered, chewing a mass of candy corn. </p>
<p>Will opened his mouth to object, but Price cut him off. </p>
<p>“And being cooked a gourmet dinner every night.”</p>
<p>Before Will could defend himself, Zeller continued, “And getting picked up from crime scenes in that sweet Bentley.”</p>
<p>“And living on an estate,” Price volleyed back.</p>
<p>Will did get in a warning “Hey!” to that one-- his home was not an estate by any definition. There was just a lot of property.</p>
<p>“And having your lunch packed for you,” Beverly joined in. “Was that pork loin today?”</p>
<p>“And going to the opera,” Price went on. “Nice shot in the society pages, by the way.”</p>
<p>Will could feel his face burning and his body stiffening, He white-knuckled the folder and refused to meet anyone’s eyes.</p>
<p>“So don’t worry about the candy corn,” Zeller concluded, rolling the bag up and placing it on a side table safely away from Mr. Milgraves. </p>
<p>“You make it sound like I’m…,” Will searched for the right words. </p>
<p>“A sugar baby?” Price asked as he switched places with Beverly and fixed his face shield in place. </p>
<p>Will blanched and visibly cringed, causing the other three to smile more widely.</p>
<p>“Eh, Will’s not young enough to be a sugar baby,” Zeller responded. Will didn’t know how to feel about the assessment, so he said nothing. “And I have to think Dr. Lecter isn’t the easiest person to live with. He’s so...neat.”</p>
<p>“A little intense,” Price added.</p>
<p>At last, a statement earned a nod from Will. </p>
<p>The four continued their work that evening mostly silently, Will wanting to sink through the floor all the while. When the examination of Mr. Milgraves’ head wounds finally finished and Will had made sufficient notes on the case file to satisfy Jack, the team wrapped up their work and called it a day. They walked as a group toward the parking lot chatting about the worst skull fractures they’d seen, but just before they reached the exit, Will stopped and waved his phone. </p>
<p>“Sorry, gotta take this-- see you later!”</p>
<p>Nobody had heard a ringtone or a vibration, and from what Beverly could see, the phone screen had not been lit. Still, the three waved as Will disappeared, curious but unconcerned. Will was always a little prone to disappearing. </p>
<p>However, as the trio exited, it became clear why Will had been so keen to avoid continuing their walk together. </p>
<p>Hannibal stood just outside his gleaming black car, his perfectly polished three-piece suit and black coat cutting a striking figure amid the sea of Toyotas and Fords driven by ragged field agents and distracted analysts. In one hand, he held a sleek stainless steel thermos. His other hand was raised as he checked the pristine watch on his wrist. When he looked up and met the eyes of the three walking toward their own vehicles, he gave a polite, closed-mouth smile and tipped his head. </p>
<p>“Playing chauffeur today?” Beverly asked with a friendly grin as she neared him. </p>
<p>Hannibal nodded and replied, “Will’s car was in need of repair. I’m glad to help.”</p>
<p>“He should be out soon,” Beverly remarked. “He was right behind us, but apparently, he had to take a call.”</p>
<p>Their eyes met for a split second as she passed, and they both understood there was no call. </p>
<p>“Thank you, Ms. Katz. I appreciate you looking out for Will,” Hannibal smoothly responded. </p>
<p>As Beverly pulled out of the parking lot at a snail’s pace a few minutes later, she watched in her rearview mirror as Will exited the building, received the thermos that had been in Hannibal’s hand, and was enveloped in black.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Spirits</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This one's pretty sappy, and I'm not sorry. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡 🧡</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Will’s nightmares were well-documented and difficult to hide. Prior to living with Hannibal, he’d have them more nights than not; gruesome tidal waves of blood and misshapen creatures gnawed on his mind as he slept. Now, having someone sleeping near him, the restful nights were beginning to outnumber the ones filled with terror. Still, when the nightmares occurred, Will followed the same pattern: He’d wake up in a sweat, scan the room wildly until he knew where he was and whom he was with, pant until he caught his breath, and then go splash his face with cold water. When he’d return, a firm hand would rub circles across his back until he returned to black, dreamless sleep. </p>
<p>Hannibal’s dreams were steeped in far more mystery. </p>
<p>Will asked him about them a few times and received vague answers about memories in Barcelona, disjointed images that hinted at his waking thoughts, spirits from his past, and beautiful visions of art drawn in blood. When Hannibal wanted to horrify Will and thus discourage further questions, he’d begin alluding to more <i>exotic</i> dreams featuring the dark-haired man. Hannibal’s lack of interest in contributing to these conversations was more suspect than any answer he could’ve given, however, and Will wondered at what exactly happened in Hannibal’s mind when his conscious brain gave up the reins. </p>
<p>Embarrassingly, Will took far too long to consider the man might have his own terrors lurking in the shadows of his mind palace, waiting to lunge when a door was left unguarded for too long. He wasn’t sure if Hannibal woke up in the middle of the night when these dreams descended on him or if he slept through them and only resurfaced in the morning light; Hannibal certainly didn’t break into a sweat or bolt upright at 3:00 AM like his bedmate. The only signs that Hannibal’s dreams had been less than pleasant came the next morning; the tells were typically subtle, but once Will saw them, he couldn’t imagine how he’d ever failed to notice them before. </p>
<p>Hannibal was an incurable morning person, productive from the start. Yet, the morning following a night of memories haunting him in the form of dreams, his eyes were glassy and his movements were the tiniest bit slower. He looked reflective and thoughtful, staring too long out the windows. </p>
<p>Another sure sign of a restless night was that Hannibal tended to throw himself headlong into projects the next day. Maybe he did this as a form of compensation for what he surely considered sluggishness in the morning, or maybe he simply knew himself well enough to realize he needed a distraction. Regardless of the reason, a new project was a good indication that he had been visited by a spirit from his past.</p>
<p>An odd habit that Will hadn’t entirely decided wasn’t merely coincidence was a seeming need to keep the fires in the den and living room burning hot the following evening. Will knew just enough of Hannibal’s childhood to guess it wasn’t accidental, but he was loath to make such heartbreaking assumptions. He was even more disinclined to ask outright.</p>
<p>The most significant giveaway, though, was how much Hannibal touched Will. He had always been fairly tactile and physically open with Will, even prior to their relationship turning from friendship to something more intimate. When Hannibal had spent a night lost among his darker memories, however, his touch was lingering and bordering on reverent the next day. He’d greet Will in the kitchen with an embrace that lasted too long. He’d say goodbye with his fingertips tracing the cheekbones of his beloved’s face. He’d greet Will with his head tucked in the space between the man’s neck and shoulder, his mouth soft there as he breathed deeply. If it was a weekend, Will might as well plant himself at the man’s side to avoid having Hannibal seek him out if he was gone for more than a few minutes. It was uncharacteristically clingy, and if Will minded, he was sure he could tell Hannibal he needed some space and be granted his wish. Will didn’t mind, though-- not once he saw the threads connecting the behavior to the memories Hannibal had so nearly escaped. </p>
<p>This was all theory, of course, until one Sunday afternoon. Hannibal had displayed all of the signs Will had begun to identify, and he was at that moment running a hand through Will’s hair after having all but dragged Will down next to him on the couch. Will was becoming drowsy under Hannibal’s deft fingers and was just unthinking enough to ask, “How’d you sleep last night?” </p>
<p>Hannibal’s movement paused, and he looked down at Will, who flickered open his eyes to meet the gaze. Hannibal looked at him as though he had seen through his skin and read the thoughts written in ash on the walls of his mind. Hannibal resumed petting Will’s hair and leaned down to press a kiss against his forehead, murmuring, “The most beautiful mind…”</p>
<p>After that, if Will suspected nightmares, he needed only to ask, “How’d you sleep?” and the full depth of the simple question was known to them both. He thought it might annoy Hannibal, being called out; he worried Hannibal would feel it as a prod at some weakness between his ribs. To the contrary, Hannibal looked at Will with brightened eyes and a fearsome sort of affection that Will knew to be another form of Hannibal’s clawed, consuming love. Will understood that love, just as Hannibal understood his own cooler, coded version of it. </p>
<p>In this way, when they spoke of sleep, they had two conversations at once:</p>
<p>“How’d you sleep?” Will would ask.</p>
<p>
  <i>I love you, Hannibal heard.</i>
</p>
<p>“Not well,” Hannibal would sigh.</p>
<p>
  <i>And I you, Will understood.</i>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Trick or Treat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Finally caught up! Hope you all are enjoying!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“We’d love for you to join us, Dr. Lecter,” Edna cooed as she wrapped a bottle of balsamic vinegar the color of motor oil in layers of thick, brown paper. “It’s a tradition.”</p><p>Hannibal gave a thoughtful hum, but his eyes were on the vinegar as he replied, “How could we refuse?”</p><p>That was the promise that carried through the store from Hannibal’s lips to Will’s ears— the word <i>we</i> being especially clear. Will glared at the bottle of grapeseed oil he had been idly reading the back label of until that point. He listened more carefully as Hannibal finished paying and traded pleasantries with the store owner, but no further details were offered. He allowed himself to be led out of the shop but stayed just a step ahead of Hannibal’s reach. Respectably, Will waited until they were within the confines of the vehicle to begin his interrogation.</p><p>“What exactly could we not refuse, Hannibal?” Will asked, fingers tight on the steering wheel. It had been a long week, filled with murders and mutilations and students who couldn’t use APA formatting if their lives depended on it. </p><p>Hannibal was unbothered by Will’s tension.</p><p>“We are members of this community now, Will. Our presence will sometimes be required to maintain appearances,” Hannibal reasoned in an even voice.</p><p>“Sometimes,” Will replied, emphasizing the word. “And I’d like a say in when that <i>sometimes</i> is.”</p><p>Not quite placating but edging toward it, Hannibal remarked, “Entirely reasonable. I defer to your judgment.”</p><p>Will made a noise between a scoff and a snort that he felt communicated his belief in Hannibal’s words quite clearly. They drove in silence for a few miles before Will returned to the conversation at hand. </p><p>“So what is it?”</p><p>A sigh escaped Hannibal’s lips— not quite weary but close.</p><p>“What do you know about trick or treating, Will?” the well-dressed man questioned as though he were asking Will what he knew about the War of 1812. </p><p>Will emitted a truly mystified sound. </p><p>“What do you need to know, Dr. Lecter?” he asked with no shortage of snark. </p><p>Hannibal took the teasing tone in stride and answered, “I’m familiar with the concept, but I’ve yet to practice it. What are the expectations?”</p><p>A fit of giggles blossomed in Will’s chest, tears almost blearing his eyes as he tried to suppress the laughter while simultaneously watching the road. Beside him, Hannibal remained typically cool. </p><p>“Kids dress up and you give them candy. That’s it. There are no expectations, Hannibal,” Will explained when he could speak without snickering. </p><p>Hannibal was silent for a long, thoughtful moment. </p><p>“Do the adults wear costumes?”</p><p>“You’ve really never done this, have you?” Will asked incredulously. </p><p>“Halloween was very different in Lithuania. Only recently have more American practices come into vogue,” Hannibal said in a formal, academic tone. </p><p>“But you must’ve had kids ring your doorbell in Baltimore,” Will prodded, a question in his voice.</p><p>“My neighborhood was not terribly welcoming to children. I was told to leave my lights off,” Hannibal replied, sounding a touch regretful. “One child did come last year. He seemed to be dressed as a marshmallow.”</p><p>Laughter overcame Will once again, his cheeks becoming wet with tears as he struggled to regain composure. It was a miracle they arrived home in one piece. In the driveway, Will turned to Hannibal to look him fully in the face, hoping they could finally finish the conversation without Will losing it once more. </p><p>“We’re too far away from town for anyone to trick or treat around here,” Will said in what he hoped was a kind tone. </p><p>“Had you been interested in listening, I could have explained the arrangement to you,” Hannibal commented back in a clipped tone, suggesting he was losing patience for Will’s amusement. </p><p>Will put a hand over Hannibal’s gently and looked him in the eyes, trying to convey that he was prepared to hear the man out. </p><p>Less sharply, Hannibal spoke again, “Business owners in the downtown area provide a trick or treating opportunity on October 30th. My practice is within that zone.”</p><p>“That’ll be great, Hannibal,” Will responded too sweetly, overcompensating for his hysterical fit. “I’ll be happy to help you.”</p><p>There was something admittedly heartwarming about the notion of Hannibal, the Chesapeake Ripper himself, placing a miniature Snickers bar into the hands of a puffy marshmallow child. That mental image caused Will to quickly add, “And please let me buy the candy.”</p><p>Hannibal’s eyes narrowed, and he got out of the car as swiftly as he could, the gift-wrapped bottle of artisanal balsamic vinegar in his hand. Will gave himself a moment alone before following the other man into their home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Costume Shopping</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Their first October together, Will gathered piecemeal how much of the typical Halloween experience Hannibal had missed out on during his storied upbringing. </p>
<p>He was born a bit too early and in far too traditional a home for things like trick or treating and spooky decor to be part of his childhood. The tragedy that struck far too soon in his life and his subsequent status as an orphan further removed him from having a Halloween that was even remotely similar to those Will grew up enjoying. Hannibal’s adolescence and young adulthood in France were similarly bereft of Halloween celebrations. The closest the worldly man had come to experiencing a standard, middle-American Halloween-- replete with gauzy cobwebs, cheap costumes, and buckets of sugar-- was reading about it and observing others participating.</p>
<p>In short, Hannibal’s knowledge was purely academic, which Will found tragic; unfortunately, this pity was broadcast on Will’s face when Hannibal asked him to explain the appeal of Skittles. Pity was not a feeling Hannibal received well, just as it was not one Will doled out lightly. Regardless of whether it was Will’s slip or plain old curiosity, Hannibal set his sights squarely on not just experiencing Halloween but understanding it, and he chose Will as his marginally compliant guide. </p>
<p>Will regretted not digging his proverbial heels in further around the third hour of costume shopping, as he found himself slumped in an uncomfortable chair that creaked worryingly each time he shifted his weight. Voices carried from the alterations room tucked behind the narrow, cluttered space of the shop floor to where Will sat in the rear corner doing his best impression of a dying houseplant. He listened to exchanges between the men, hoping for a sign they might soon be finished. </p>
<p>“What about fur?” Hannibal asked.</p>
<p>Will groaned and sank deeper until a sharp pop sounded from the chair, causing him to abruptly freeze. </p>
<p>An older man’s voice-- deeply accented with a twang that sounded more Georgia than Virginia-- replied, “We have a gorgeous faux chinchilla.”</p>
<p>There was a heavy pause. Will could imagine Hannibal’s expression.</p>
<p>“Let us forget the fur,” Hannibal replied politely. </p>
<p>A small grin pulled at Will’s mouth in spite of his annoyance. </p>
<p>He listened as the negotiations continued for another seven minutes. Finally, though, the men seemed to reach an impasse, and it became clear no costumes would be sold today. Will tried to look alive as Hannibal and the shop owner reentered the main room, standing up on numb legs and straightening his hair with his fingers. He wasn’t too dazed to notice Hannibal slip the shop owner cash that he at first refused but easily let himself be talked into accepting as Hannibal insisted it was only fair to pay for the man’s time. For a flash of a moment, Will entertained the half-formed thought that behavior like this-- tiny, personal connections-- cloaked Hannibal’s nature better than any tailored suit.</p>
<p>Will shook the idea away and met Hannibal at the front of the shop. The polished man’s eyes angled with a half-formed smile that Will met for a moment before feeling awkward and ducking out the front door, the entrance bell ringing behind him. Once outside, Will led Hannibal around the block, the cool breeze refreshing after spending so long in the closed space. They walked, shoulders brushing, while Will felt his back and chest relax with each lungful of crisp air. </p>
<p>“I didn’t anticipate finding a costume being so tiresome,” Hannibal observed, not a complaint.</p>
<p>“You didn’t find a costume,” Will returned. </p>
<p>They walked another block in companionable silence. </p>
<p>As they came near a storefront decked out in a kitschy decor, Will offered, “You know, part of Halloween is slapping together a costume. It’s not supposed to be perfect.”</p>
<p>Hannibal paused and looked over the display, considering the words. </p>
<p>“What do you intend to be this Halloween, Will?” Hannibal asked with a spark of interest. </p>
<p>Will smiled at the glow-in-the-dark plastic skull and answered, “A fisherman.”</p>
<p>A noise between a laugh and a sigh escaped the other man’s throat, and Will’s mouth twisted into a grin in response. As they walked down the sidewalk, the later afternoon sun casting golden rays over the small town, Will made a game of lazily proposing new ideas for Hannibal’s costume:</p>
<p>“How about a vampire? They must sell plastic teeth back there.”</p>
<p>
  <i>Hannibal gave Will an indulgent smile.</i>
</p>
<p>“A serial killer?”</p>
<p>
  <i>Hannibal didn’t dignify the suggestion with a response.</i>
</p>
<p>“A chef?”</p>
<p><i>An intrigued hum came from Hannibal’s chest as he tilted his head in thought.</i> </p>
<p>By the time they had circled the small downtown and arrived back at their car, they were no closer to finding a costume, but both men’s eyes glimmered in the setting sun.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. First Frost</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, I'm posting this one out of order because the apple cider chapter (which was supposed to be posted yesterday) is on a different laptop. I hope you enjoy another sweet and sappy piece!</p><p>🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It would have been a mistake to call Will Graham a romantic man, although he felt like he certainly had his moments. Dr. Lecter, meanwhile, imbued each facet of daily life with enough romance and panache for both of them, and he seemed to accept-- if not appreciate-- how stubbornly removed Will was from the pomp and circumstance that surrounded events like dinner parties and holiday celebrations. While Will maybe lacked some of Hannibal’s sense of romance, he was not so oblivious that he didn’t catch Hannibal’s off-handed comment one morning while flipping through a leather bound planner. </p><p>“Soon we’ll have passed a year together,” Hannibal noted absently and continued skimming the thick, ivory pages. </p><p>With those words, a tiny alarm began to sound from a corner of Will’s mind. Hannibal’s continued silence and purposeful concentration on his task escalated the ringing bell to a blaring siren with red flashing lights and a voice that announced “Danger!” </p><p>That had been in late September, and it was the direct cause for Will standing outside of an antique shop in Baltimore at 5:45 on the coldest morning yet in October. His warm breath clouded around his face, and the tips of his shoes were slick with melting frost. He felt his nose reddening and his fingers becoming numb in his pockets, so he paced in front of the locked entry a few times in a feeble attempt to warm himself. The shop opened at 8:00 AM, but the dealer told Will over the phone in a conspiratorial voice that he arrived very early on the days he brought his most recently acquired prizes into the store.  </p><p>It had been nothing but pure, dumb luck that led Will to this particular place. He’d been standing in line at the mom and pop grocery store downtown, scanning newspaper headlines while the handcart grew heavy in his grasp. The local paper, which somewhat lacked in hard-hitting reporting, sported a headline reading: “Fall Anglers’ Guide -- Page 3!” On a whim, Will snatched it off the rack. Later that evening, having read through the mediocre fishing guide, Will thumbed through the rest of the paper. Most of it was fluff and personal interest stories-- family recipes, fundraising events, tips to stay safe this Halloween, youth league registration dates. The sparse news stories covered such riveting events as a house fire that destroyed a historical home, the contentious city council elections, and a heated school board meeting where the hottest topic was whether or not the district’s high school students should be permitted to wear hats in the hallways. </p><p>It was almost refreshing to remember that not everyone’s life revolved around blood and bone and violence.</p><p>Midway through page seven-- the laughable arts and culture section of the paper-- Will finally found something interesting. Apparently, an early 1700s print of John Donne’s poetry had been disassembled by an artist with a trust fund, and each poem was lovingly “preserved” by being lacquered onto a piece of fossilized wood. Now, the artist, having received more than a little bit of backlash for desecrating a rare book in otherwise beautiful condition, was auctioning off his pieces and donating the proceeds to a literacy foundation. With each word in the article, Will grew more confident he had found the perfect gift for Hannibal: Pretentious, rare, storied, controversial, and both intensely public and painfully personal. From this news article, Will’s world spiraled into a singled-minded mission to secure the piece of wood bearing “The Good-Morrow,” a poem Will felt terribly appropriate, and this mission led him to the doorstep of an antique shop at the crack of dawn as he shivered on the sidewalk. </p><p>At 5:57, a small man with thick glasses and a pinched scowl walked hurriedly toward the entrance. Will didn’t miss the way the elderly man side-eyed him and clutched the case in his left hand tighter. </p><p>“Excuse me,” Will called out, voice rough. He was paying a lot of money to be looked at like a mugger. “I’m Will Graham.”</p><p>The man visibly relaxed and laughed awkwardly. His eyes glanced over Will’s clothing appraisingly, but he masked his confusion well enough. </p><p>“Oh, Mr. Graham! So sorry to keep you waiting-- I wanted to be certain the pieces were securely wrapped. Better to be right than fast,” he intoned, overly polite now. </p><p>Will sighed and took a few steps forward, helping the man get the door open as he balanced too many bags and cases. Inside, the air almost as cold as outdoors, the man flipped on yellowing lights and turned on a heating unit. Will rubbed his hands together anxiously and tried not to look impatient as the old man withdrew a black box and laid it on the counter between them. Will let him open the package, show the piece to Will with painful attention to detail, and talk about what a find it was. The younger man bit his tongue, trying not to remind the shop owner that he’d already bought the damn thing and just wanted to be home again. </p><p>Hours later, when Will at last got his wish and crossed the threshold into his own home, he was not surprised to find Hannibal gone. Will made quick work of securing the wood art to a shelf in the study; he would wait for Hannibal to find it, avoiding the awkwardness of presenting the other man with a gift. The thought of holding out a present and waiting for Hannibal’s scrutinizing gaze to deem it worthy or unworthy made Will feel light-headed, even though he knew Hannibal would at least pretend to like any halfway decent gift Will drummed up. At dinner that evening, Will had to quash the impulse to lead Hannibal to the room like a child showing off a new drawing, but if the doctor noticed any anxiousness, he didn’t comment on it. After dinner, when Hannibal wandered upstairs to the study to work on a journal article he was co-authoring, Will lingered near the bottom of the staircase, listening for a sign of discovery. </p><p>None came. </p><p>Will went upstairs under the pretense of changing into sleep clothes, but he passed the study door a few times too many for that story to be particularly believable. Each time he let his eyes wander into the study, Hannibal was typing away, attention fixed on his laptop screen. </p><p>After a few minutes of stewing in the hallway, Will ultimately walked directly to where Hannibal sat and waited for the man to shift his eyes from his work to his visitor. When Hannibal’s eyes met Will’s, though, the shining amber hinted at fond antagonism. </p><p>“You saw it,” Will immediately stated.</p><p>“I did,” Hannibal confirmed. He remained seated but put his hands on Will’s flanks.</p><p>Will didn’t want to ask if Hannibal liked it, even though he desperately wanted to know the answer. He was a little disgusted with himself for caring so much about something that truly did not matter to him in the least.</p><p>Instead, Hannibal questioned, “Special occasion?”</p><p>Will’s eyebrows rose and his mouth opened slightly in indignant surprise. Before he could launch into a tirade, however, Hannibal pulled him close and nuzzled at his stomach right above his belly button. </p><p>“Thank you,” Hannibal said into the fabric of Will’s cotton shirt. “But I only request your time.”</p><p>“Then you’ll be glad to know it took me a <i>lot</i> of time to get that thing,” Will complained without teeth. “I had to make small talk. The dealer thought I was a robber.”</p><p>Hannibal’s shoulders shook once with a muffled laugh. Will smiled in response, glad Hannibal couldn’t see it. He ran his fingers through silky blonde-gray hair and felt the warmth of blood-warmed skin beneath his hands as Hannibal’s arms enveloped him around his hips, body heat shrouding Will like a blanket. </p><p>As Will stood in the warmth, he wondered at how a year had passed. It felt frighteningly short.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Hot Cider</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've sort of fallen in love with Will and Hannibal living in a house in the country, ingratiating themselves with the small-town locals, and also being super dramatic serial killers. </p><p>🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Riverside Kitchen was situated along a body of water that would only generously be called a creek. The two-story building’s exterior was in the style of a log cabin, with each wall composed of horizontal lines of dark wood stacked skyward; the plain structure was given more shape by the sprawling, wrap-around porch and back deck that was trellised for private outdoor dining. The interior of The Riverside Kitchen was an interior designer’s version of a hunting cabin: Mounted animal heads covered with a thin film of dust hung from each wall, seats were upholstered with plaid and brown suede fabrics, the heavy wood tables had visible knots and grooves, and an honest-to-goodness bearskin rug hung behind the hostess’ podium. It was a place Will would’ve gladly visited, smiling at the overwrought theme and asking one of the servers in a white button-down and jeans what they thought about the trout. Hannibal, meanwhile, would have been likelier to burn the restaurant to the ground than become a patron. </p><p>Still, in the name of community and courtesy, Hannibal donned his least ornate suit and smiled charmingly when the manager greeted him at the door, asking if he was with the business and professionals association party. The manager’s ruddy face was frozen into a portrait of startled friendliness as he led Hannibal and Will toward the private space, so Will gave him a wide berth. The room they entered was filled with middle-aged to elderly men and women in bland suits; among the crowd of more than fifty, fewer than a dozen— including Will— were under the age of forty. The attendees were lively, though, as they clapped each other on the shoulders, laughed too loudly, and flitted around between the circles that naturally formed in the space. Will had the uneasy sense that all of these people had known each other for many years and made a regular practice of attending events such as these, likely dotting the months in between with barbecues, birthday dinners, and other arbitrary excuses to over-imbibe. Will hadn’t felt so much like the new kid in quite some time.</p><p>As Will and Hannibal slipped into the crowd, Will eyed the bar immediately and nodded toward it. Hannibal’s hand slipped from his lower back— Will hadn’t noticed it was there, which was a realization he didn’t quite have the time or capacity to analyze at the moment— and the older man’s gaze drifted toward the loudest man in the room, who was holding court with several admirers. Will turned his face downward to hide his smirk as he considered Hannibal’s natural desire to target the biggest, most impressive prey. This man wouldn’t end up on the dinner table, Will presumed, but he also wouldn’t remain perched atop his hill for long once Hannibal began carving a place for himself.</p><p>The young woman behind the bar, 23 at most, flashed a bright grin in Will’s direction. He wondered how long it had been since she’d seen a new face at one of these events. </p><p>“Hi there!” She brightly greeted him. </p><p>Will grimaced, caught himself, and mumbled a greeting in return. </p><p>Slightly thrown by Will’s coldness, she asked in a less familiar tone, “What can I get you, sir?”</p><p>“House bourbon, neat,” Will recited, an order he’d given countless times before. </p><p>“Are you sure I can’t interest you in a cup of our famous hot cider? One part fresh cider, one part whiskey, and a swirl of cinnamon,” the bartender pitched the drink for what must have been the hundredth time that day.</p><p>“No, thanks,” Will declined, and the bartender shrugged as she turned.</p><p>He’d learned months ago to not order for Hannibal unless specifically requested, and Will was just fine leaving him to fend for himself. He knew Hannibal would frown at the mahogany liquid Will would sip on, just as he knew that if he finished the first glass, then a second glass— filled with bourbon or whiskey of a noticeably higher quality— would be placed in his empty hands within minutes. </p><p>Will lingered on the perimeter of the group, summoning all of his tricks to avoid talking to people. He stared too long at the paintings of streams and deer, wasted a good few minutes looking out the window at the parking lot littered with Lexus and BMW logos, and was on his way to examine the stonework of the fireplace until a group of men with replenished drinks crowded into the space. He tried to blend into the wallpaper, then, and failed, so he instead fell into the familiar habit of assessing the scene before him. Along one wall, a long table with a crisp white linen covering draped over it displayed an assortment of hors d’oeuvres; forming a right angle with it, a twin table with fruit, desserts, and non-alcoholic drinks was arranged for the guests’ convenience. Hannibal would touch none of it, Will was certain. Between the platters, sprays of corn husks and pyramids of small gourds served as decor; discreetly, Will tapped an acorn squash with his fingernail and found that it was plastic. His eyes trailed beyond the tables to survey the clusters of men and women spread around the room. At a circular table, three men who looked at least eighty were leaned in close together. The man on the left was stabbing the table with his index finger while the man on the right nodded sagely; for his part, the man in the middle seemed to be barely holding onto consciousness. A tight circle of women with high heels and higher hair stood around a cocktail table with smiles that didn’t meet their eyes. Five men around Hannibal’s age formed a semicircle with their backs to the sizable stone fireplace; they all looked as though they had belonged to a fraternity thirty years ago but were never informed they graduated. They traded barbs Will could barely make out and drained their pale golden beers in large swallows. Eventually, Will’s gaze fell on the group Hannibal had swiftly begun to enthrall. </p><p>Three women in muted colors and four men in similarly drab business casual wear crowded the space. The man who had been entertaining the group previously— whom Will had deemed Man with Beard in lieu of making any attempt at determining his actual name— was much quieter now, although Hannibal still allowed him to dominate the conversation. Will knew this was precisely what Hannibal was doing— <i>allowing</i> the man this sliver of grace. Hannibal was silent save for a few remarks Will couldn’t hear but that he could see were finished with a charming half-grin at the two women standing next to him. Whatever he said went over well with the group, and their laughter carried through the room; Man with Beard gave a tense smile and launched into another speech on a topic Will was sure he didn’t care about whatsoever. </p><p>Leaving Hannibal to his work— Will hadn’t missed how the woman to his right clutched one of Hannibal’s gold-edged business cards between her fingers— the younger man wandered into the hallway and made sure he got lost on the way to the restroom. He spent too long there— checking his phone, adjusting his glasses, running his fingers through his hair. He knew Hannibal would begin looking for him soon, just to check in even though Will would not ask to leave no matter how painfully mundane the party was. Will figured that if Hannibal could live with seven dogs, he could make the concession of enduring the occasional get-together.</p><p>When he found his way back to the crowd, Will found Hannibal right where he left him, only among a larger swarm of the business and professionals association members. He was still relatively quiet and reserved, which Will identified as a fantastic ploy to draw strangers in— Will himself notwithstanding, of course. The accent didn’t hurt either. One of the women in towering heels glided past Will, her tan wrap dress clinging noticeably—<i>strategically,</i>— as she balanced two steaming glass mugs in her hands. Thin cinnamon sticks protruding from the glasses at slanted angles suggested the bartender had finally sold some of the restaurant’s “famous” hot cider. He watched the woman stride smoothly through the crowd, clearly on a mission. As she neared the group Hannibal had integrated himself into, Will quirked an eyebrow, observing that  Hannibal was the only one without a glass in his hands. </p><p>Will leaned against the wall to watch her attack from across the room.</p><p>She started by nudging Hannibal lightly with her elbow, moving too close under the guise of getting his attention. Rather forward, Will thought. She tilted her head and smiled from under her fake eyelashes; he had to give her the fact that she was an attractive woman, a fair-skinned redhead probably in her early 40s. Unfortunately for her, she also seemed fairly normal, which meant Hannibal had probably determined her most devastating childhood trauma, greatest fear, and blood type within five minutes of being introduced; it was impossible to appear beguiling when there was no mystery begging to be solved. The redhead held up one of the drinks she carried, proffering it to Hannibal; Will imagined he could see the disgust in Hannibal’s eyes from across the room as he contemplated the sticky concoction laden with sugar and bottom-shelf whiskey. The suited man held up a hand and shook his head; Will could read the words “I’m driving” on his lips, along with less discernible words that were almost certainly phrases that hinted at apology without ever saying as much. The woman had not anticipated this outcome, and she stood for a moment with both hands holding cups of steaming cider, her face etched in confusion. Will took a sip of his bourbon and waited to see what she would do. She recovered swiftly and set the extra glass on the mantle a few feet from where they stood, gesturing to Hannibal so that he knew her offer still stood. Will was almost proud of her.</p><p>The tense moment having passed, the redhead squeezed herself back into the space between Hannibal and an older woman with a colorful scarf and a long braid down her back. Man with Beard finished his story, drawing laughter from the group; Hannibal made some sort of quip, and the laughter grew louder. The redhead put her hand on Hannibal’s bicep and gave him a look that appeared to ask “Whatever am I going to do with you?” This was the first time Will felt the nipping teeth of irritation-- if anyone was going to be affectionately exasperated with Hannibal, it would be Will Graham. He had earned that much.</p><p>Hannibal pointedly looked at the woman’s hand with a cool gaze, distinctly different from the charismatic version of himself he offered to the group. The woman withdrew her touch as if stung, spilling a bit of her drink over the back of her hand as she recoiled. The others didn’t seem to notice, their attention already directed back to Man with Beard. The woman was lost again, floundering between her attraction and the odd reaction she had received. A few minutes passed, and Will started to relax again-- as much as he could in the current environment anyway-- right as the woman finished her drink with a gulp and broke away to place her cup on a nearby table. She took the opportunity to dig into her purse, fish out a square that Will presumed was a business card, and write something on one side of it. When she reinserted herself into the circle, Hannibal still watching Man with Beard in feigned intrigue, she touched his hand with hers, coming close to interlocking their fingers but pulling away at the last second. She leaned close, body against his arm, and whispered something, lifting her other hand to give Hannibal the card. Will noticed the stiffening of Hannibal’s shoulders as he took the card between his index and middle finger, his brow raising slightly; a jealous man might have misread these cues as returned attraction, but Will knew they were attributable to a combination of Hannibal’s distaste for the woman’s brazenness at what was ostensibly a professional function and his desire to avoid getting someone’s cheap perfume on his suit. </p><p>Driven mostly by sympathy-- but maybe a tiny bit by annoyance-- Will finally decided to ruin the redhead’s dreams of becoming Mrs. Hannibal Lecter and bearing a soccer team of tiny Lithuanian children. Will sauntered across the room, not in too much of a hurry, and he waited for Hannibal-- who was now standing with his arms crossed over his chest and his body turned ever so slightly away from the woman-- to see him. Will hadn’t grown tired of the way Hannibal’s face changed into an expression of subdued happiness when they locked eyes at events like this; the subtle turning up of the man’s mouth, the appearance of fine lines around his eyes, and the emerging warmth that seemed to change the hue of his irises all spoke of his appreciation for Will. Being the cause for such a shift in the doctor’s demeanor was a thrilling, intoxicating feeling. </p><p>He was not disappointed this time. </p><p>As Hannibal noticed Will, the crowd, in turn, noticed Hannibal’s reaction. Will was not offended when the redhead, overly attuned to Hannibal at the moment, looked clear past Will, trying to find the source of Hannibal’s pleasure. Dark eyes tracked Will as he edged around the group toward where the older man stood, and he was thankful when a firm hand reached out and landed on his back as soon as he was within striking distance. Hannibal inserted Will between himself and the redhead, which was perhaps adding insult to injury at this point. </p><p>“This is Will Graham,” Hannibal announced, looking at the dark-haired man’s profile. </p><p>Between the arm wrapped around Will and the disgustingly affectionate way Hannibal was staring at him, it was not necessary to define the nature of their relationship for the others, all of whom were now rapt by the aloof doctor’s younger, less well-dressed, very male paramour. It took them a moment to shake off the surprise and introduce themselves in kind. </p><p>When the circle came to the redhead, she spoke with wide eyes and a plastered smile, “I’m Helena. My brother and I own Banks Real Estate.”</p><p>Sticking to the facts, Will noticed. That was smart. </p><p>Hannibal produced a small rectangular piece of cardstock and presented it to Will, saying, “Helena gave us her business card. I told her we weren’t interested, but she is quite persistent.”</p><p>The woman’s face reddened and splotchy patches of red emerged along her throat as she endured Hannibal’s veiled scolding. Will took the card, saw the writing was her personal cell phone number, and folded the card in half. He stuck it in his pocket. </p><p>“I’ll keep it safe,” he told Helena with no trace of friendliness.</p><p>He felt the hand tighten pleasantly on his side as Helena Banks slowly died of embarrassment.</p>
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<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Trick or Treat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Only one more left!</p><p>🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I’ve never met a dragon before,” Hannibal said in a curious tone, crouching down with a bowl of miniature candy bars in his hands.</p><p>“Grrrrraaarrrrrr,” the little girl in front of him growled, pulling the cords attached around her wrists to flap her wings. </p><p>“Oh, my,” Hannibal gasped, “you must be careful. Soon, you’ll spit fire when you roar.”</p><p>The child looked awestruck by this idea, then descended into a fit of giggles. Her small hand grasped more candy than it should have been able to hold, a Reese’s cup going airborne as she tore off down the walkway toward her waiting mother. </p><p>“Say ‘thank you’, Sophia,” the mother ordered. </p><p>Sophia the Dragon turned back and yelled a forceful, “Thank you!” and flapped her wings again.</p><p>“You’re welcome,” Hannibal politely returned, and with that, Sophia was back on track for a night of candy collecting. </p><p>For a first-timer, Hannibal was doing remarkably well with the whole trick-or-treating business. Will shouldn’t have been surprised that Hannibal was naturally good at something as simple as handing out candy to children, but his brain had struggled to picture the moment until it was upon him. Now, Will and Hannibal sat in the two rocking chairs on the front porch of Hannibal’s downtown office, one of Hannibal’s expertly-carved pumpkins at the bottom of the three steps leading up to the porch from the walkway. Will had bought four large bags of candy-- two fruity, two chocolate-- which had seemed like overkill until sundown came and the streets filled with children. Will didn’t know the town they had moved to had this many people, let alone this many kids, but apparently, the annual downtown trick or treat night hosted by local businesses was a big deal in this area. After years living far from the thrum of humanity present in neighborhoods and suburbs, Will had to admit there was a certain excitement inherent in bestowing the gift of sugar onto kids dressed as all manner of heroes, villains, and monsters. It also made him appreciate the fact that he and Hannibal lived far enough away from anyone else to avoid a second night of this ritual. </p><p>While Will and Hannibal worked in tandem to ensure every last ghoul and goblin received their spoils, they took vastly different approaches to the process. Hannibal commented on each costume, playing into the children’s fantasy worlds when he could. The kids seemed to get a kick out of a man in a fancy suit taking a genuine interest in their costumes and fully listening to them when they talked, and the parents found it endearing when Hannibal would clutch his chest at a fake gunshot wound from a tiny cowboy or put his hands on his neck defensively when a caped vampire would come skipping along. Sometimes, however, a truly puzzling costume would present itself, which would spark an interrogation about the origin of the costume, the source material, why it was chosen, and on and on until the children got too antsy and were released. Explaining the notion of Power Rangers to Hannibal and elaborating on why the red ranger was the best had been a six-minute ordeal in and of itself. </p><p>Will’s approach was much more efficient: “I like your costume. Fruity or chocolatey?”  </p><p>Because of these differences in tactics, Will would have gotten four or five kids through the line by the time Hannibal had finished talking to one. But interestingly, Hannibal appeared to be enjoying himself, so Will didn’t offer any unsolicited critique. When 9:00 PM came and went, the crowds started thinning; by 9:30, only a few intrepid souls remained on the sidewalks. The temperature had plummeted the past few nights, reaching the 30s and then swinging back up to the 60s by midday; for Will, the sting of the cold had begun to outweigh the joy of tossing handfuls of candy at children, so he wasn’t sad to see the streets mostly empty.</p><p>“Five more minutes?” Will asked, hoping for agreement.</p><p>Hannibal glanced at his watch and responded, “I suppose so.”</p><p>Will could have sworn he heard a hint of sadness in the tone.</p><p>“Man the candy bowl while I lock up?” Will said as he stood and put the bowl holding the last of the candy on Hannibal’s lap. </p><p>Inside, Will almost shuddered in delight as the warm air washed over him. The sudden relaxation also made him feel woefully tired, his dry eyes growing heavy. He’d been summoned to a crime scene before dawn that day, and it was catching up with him now. Will straightened the office and made sure everything was in place and secured before grabbing his coat and heading back toward the porch. Through the cracked door, Will could see Hannibal was sitting alone still, no children approaching the office. Will was relieved, exhaustion worsening by the minute. </p><p>At the same moment Will stepped onto the wood of the porch, however, Hannibal’s gaze darted to a point somewhere down the sidewalk, an expression of alert concentration widening his eyes and drawing his brow into a hard line. Will followed Hannibal’s line of sight until he found the object of the man’s interest.</p><p>Hurling themselves down the sidewalk at a breakneck pace were four children: Three Ghostbusters and one Stay Puft marshmallow man. Will dragged a hand over his face, sensing the litany of questions forming in Hannibal’s mind as the children turned and sprinted up the walkway toward the office porch. Hannibal had been given a year of pondering why a child would dress as a marshmallow, and he would not be able to resist this golden opportunity, although Will suspected the children wouldn’t mind when they walked away with the rest of the candy bowl divided among their four bags. Will turned without speaking, went inside, laid down on the chaise lounge in Hannibal’s office, and pulled his coat over him as a blanket. He was fast asleep within minutes.</p><p>Some time after 10:30 PM, Will awoke to Hannibal carrying him out of the office. Will’s eyes opened blearily as he registered where he was, what was happening to him, and who was doing it. </p><p>“Hannibal,” Will mumbled, words more garbled than they were in his head. Too dazed to talk much, he asked, “Why?”</p><p>One side of Hannibal’s mouth rose in a small smile. </p><p>“You were asleep,” he answered simply, as though it should have been obvious that the solution to finding your significant other asleep was to bridal carry them to a waiting vehicle.</p><p>Sleep-addled, Will just nodded and let himself continue to be carried toward the car parked behind the office. He finally had to stand long enough to get into the Bentley, a tired groan escaping his lips when he had to support himself fully again. However, once in the vehicle, he was immediately overcome with pleasure to find Hannibal had already warmed the car and turned on the heated seats. In that moment, Will didn’t care how many people Hannibal had eaten because the man was clearly a saint. When the car started rolling forward, Will curled in the seat and began dozing off again. </p><p>Before he lost consciousness once more, Will thought to ask, “Figure out the marshmallow?”</p><p>Will heard a chuckle but was asleep before any further answer could be given.</p>
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<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Halloween</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>We made it! Happy Halloween and THANK YOU for reading!</p>
<p>🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤🎃🧡🖤</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Will stretched his arms above his head, knuckles resting against the headboard briefly before dropping his arms back to his sides and pulling the blankets up to his chin. After a late summer, the final week of October brought with it crisp midday winds and frigid nights. The cold of the bedroom, however, only made the heat trapped beneath the blankets more indulgent. It was Halloween, and Will had gotten a solid ten hours of sleep after a restless week and an exhausting night handing out candy to dozens of overstimulated children. The sounds of Hannibal working in the kitchen drifted upstairs, but the man wrapped in blankets was in no hurry. He knew what a luxury it was to be able to spend a lazy morning in a large, comfortable bed, serenaded by the footfalls and toiling of one who understood— and loved— him ferociously. </p>
<p>Generally, Will avoided thinking about his current life too intently; acknowledging it made it real, and real things could be broken. But he gave himself the rare, private moment to be grateful, hoping he wasn’t pushing his luck too much in the eyes of the universe. His official one-year anniversary seemed like as good an occasion as any to allow himself a modicum of pleasure— particularly since he had managed to present a decent gift that was given early, no less. Will was certain, of course, that if they were ever to be apprehended, Freddie Lounds wouldn’t care about gifts and quiet mornings; instead, she would have a field day with the fact their anniversary was on Halloween, butting into their accidental private joke.</p>
<p>They didn’t mean for it to happen this way, but like so much of Will’s life, a sense of inevitability tinged with irony shaped the evolution of his relationship with Hannibal. Regardless, he held the memory in the most secure chambers of his mind.</p>
<p>Will had been rounding day twelve in the hospital for encephalitis. He felt better than he had in months; his mind was clear, his energy was up, and he was sleeping at least four hours before dreams turned into nightmares-- and even those lacked some of the color they previously had. Will could thank Hannibal a great deal of that; it was the psychiatrist who <i>sniffed</i> him, of all things, and smelled something that shouldn’t be there. Will had thought Hannibal might be delusional, but he’d also hoped desperately that he wasn’t; having a physical cause for his psychological symptoms was all he wished for. The doctor had also been the one who called in a favor to get Will seen by a neurologist within eighteen hours of the man’s suspicions arising, and he had been Will’s most reliable-- and enjoyed-- visitor during his nearly two-week stay. Hannibal detoured to see Will before his first appointment each morning, smuggling in actual coffee, and he set the small table in the hospital room each evening with plates, silverware, and a home-cooked meal. More than the food, the quality of the visits helped keep Will sane through his recovery; Hannibal talked to Will like he was...well, <i>Will</i>. Jack spoke to him as though he was Miriam Lass reincarnated, all the while clearly chomping to put a casefile in Will’s hands-- IV or no IV. Alana regarded him with concern and, in true Dr. Bloom fashion, did best when she was given a concrete task, like taking care of Will’s dogs, instead of being left to flounder in the gray of friendship. Beverly stopped by a few times and never failed to lighten Will’s mood, but their friendship was shakier then, and it’s hard to get to know someone from a hospital bed. When she dragged Brian and Jimmy along with her one day, they stayed near the perimeter of the room and looked at Will like he was liable to shatter at any moment. </p>
<p>But not Hannibal. </p>
<p>Hannibal talked to Will about cases in the news, philosophized on the nature of good and evil, and spoke in metaphors just as he would had they been in his office. He asked Will questions about his work with Jack and about his evolving state of mind, testing Will’s limits and finding them more flexible than he’d first thought. In return, Will pushed back, picking apart Hannibal’s own weaknesses and biases, and found Hannibal readily willing to absorb the blows. Eventually, they had beaten into one another with enough muscle and vehemence that they couldn’t quite remember who was pushing and who was resisting, so they leaned against one another instead. </p>
<p>Hannibal’s ploy was not, in retrospect, subtle. Will would have sold a kidney to leave the hospital, particularly by the time October 31st came and most of the nurses wore “fun” headbands with cat ears or devil horns, but the doctors were not willing to negotiate. At least, they were not willing to negotiate with the patient himself; they ended up being rather more malleable once Hannibal began applying force to them. They released Will into Hannibal’s care, the condition for letting him leave the hospital without signing a stack of papers stating Will would not sue them were he to leave inadvisably and suffer vague yet assuredly dire consequences. His doctor told him with a frown that he should stay under Dr. Lecter’s supervision for at least five days; Will nodded solemnly and later told Hannibal he’d be gone within three. He was wrong, of course, but he couldn’t have known that then.</p>
<p>The shower he took at Hannibal’s house was the best one of his life, the combination of sterility and borrowed disease washing away from him while Hannibal worked on an overly ornate meal. Will wouldn’t learn until almost a year later that Hannibal had his first ever trick or treater during the time Will was upstairs scrubbing the hospital off of his skin. When he came downstairs, clothed in loose-fitting pants and a white t-shirt that weren’t his, he caught an odd look on Hannibal’s face, one that was a tense cross between a frown and a smile, brow furrowed but mouth twisting upward at the corners as his gaze flickered over Will’s body with lightning speed. But Will caught it, and he wondered if his baking brain had missed similar looks before. Hannibal was back to his work before Will had a chance to react, but his mind was processing and cataloging memories in an entirely brighter light. Did it make more sense for a man like Hannibal, removed and untouchable, to spend hours in a dingy hospital room because he felt a sense of responsibility for someone who was not a patient, or did it make more sense for him to devote those hours to someone he cared for beyond the bounds of friendship? </p>
<p>Will wasn’t sure if he was more afraid that his theory was right or that it was wrong. Either way, he was going to end up feeling very foolish eventually. </p>
<p>“Make yourself comfortable,” Hannibal had told him over the sound of chopping, prompting Will to move. </p>
<p>He sank into the armchair in the corner of the kitchen and watched the man work. As he observed, Will dimly recognized that even with his blood full of medications, his brain healing from a devastating illness, and at least a few days away from home still ahead of him, he was okay. More than that-- he was <i>good</i>. Life was never so easy nor so clear as when he was with Hannibal. The speed it had happened was overwhelming, but it was also too late by the time Will noticed. </p>
<p>Later, when Hannibal had been setting the table, Will wondered how many dinners were behind them and how many more lay ahead. He hoped to never know the second number. Maybe it was painkillers or maybe it was residual muddled thinking or maybe it was something else entirely, but Will dragged his place setting from across the table to directly next to Hannibal’s seat. The man watched, curious, as Will settled in beside him; curiosity split wide open into wariness when Will put a hand on his leg, met his eyes, and spoke slowly but directly.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Will had said first, intending to stop there, but then he added, “I think you saved my life. Changed it, at least.”</p>
<p>At the time, Will had read Hannibal’s hard swallow and prolonged silence as embarrassment, a moment for the doctor to decide how best to deflect Will’s words. Now, Will thought the reaction was at the prospect of saving instead of taking-- two sides of the same coin.</p>
<p>“I can think of no better life to save,” Hannibal had replied with precisely chosen words and a hand that came to rest over Will’s. It was a cautious response, requiring Will to continue leading. </p>
<p>Will had wanted to tell him that he’d miss seeing him in the mornings and the evenings. He had wanted to say he knew himself better when he was with Hannibal than at any other time in his life. He had wanted to tell Hannibal that the world was a more extraordinary place since their lives collided. But Will wasn’t good with words when he really needed them, and the doctor had enough ego to last him a lifetime.</p>
<p>So Will kissed him instead. And Hannibal kissed him back. </p>
<p>And a year later, Will was lying in their bed in their house in their small, protected corner of the world. They would have breakfast, take the dogs on a walk, light Hannibal’s ridiculous collection of pumpkins (and Will’s single pumpkin that had at last been returned to the front porch), maybe watch a horror movie of Will’s choosing that Hannibal would endure if not enjoy, and go to sleep that night intertwined. Then, when Halloween was over, they would awake on November 1st to begin their second year together.</p>
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